


The Dragon and the Lioness

by gwdihw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 83,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7730284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwdihw/pseuds/gwdihw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE!</p>
<p>Set two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco is trying to reintegrate into Wizarding society, facing a fair bit of prejudice along the way. Hermione is striving to make a difference in her first job at the Ministry while struggling to find the time for her personal life. </p>
<p>Life seemed to be returning to normal in the Wizarding world before a dragon and Dementor attack on London. </p>
<p>Warnings for a death scene and mention of self-harm in later chapters. </p>
<p>Warning for implied rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

October 2000

The whispers hounded Draco. He had given himself a little pep talk beforehand (more like several little pep talks) and had somehow convinced himself that everything would be hunky-dory. Turned out, things weren’t one hundred per cent hunky-dory.

If someone had told him a few years ago that he would start his first job lacking confidence, he would have sneered derisively at them. Unfortunately, he’d since learnt that years of being loathed and belittled by the entire wizarding world had a knack of eroding your poise.

‘Draco Malfoy,’ he told the witch behind the desk at the Ministry. He fought the urge to whisper it, the name he’d once said so proudly. The woman’s eyebrows shot up dramatically and she eyed Draco with extreme suspicion. 

‘And what is it you want, Mr Malfoy?’ she asked, toying sarcastically with his title.

‘I work here now. It’s my first day.’

She barely concealed a snort.

For the past few days his father had kept on reminding him that he didn’t have to do it. In fact, he seemed positively bewildered by the idea that Draco even wanted to work, as though worried that Draco had forgotten about the vast quantity of wealth he was due to inherit. Lucius had seemed nervous on Draco’s behalf, vicariously dreading the ostracism his son was bound the face. It had made Draco unbearably sad to see what the war and Voldemort and Azkaban and everything else had reduced his father to.

Narcissa had nodded, a fierce pride burning in her eyes; she had always been the strong one.

The woman let him pass but Draco could feel her eyes on the back of his neck as he walked away. 

The ministry was barely recognisable, full of bright colours and scenes of friendship and tolerance. The last time he had seen it was in the weeks following Voldemort’s downfall when he and his family had been dragged in and put on trial. They were quickly pardoned but it had still been a harrowing experience.

Draco found the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the hiss of gossip in his ears. Even people who had never seen him before knew exactly who he was; it was awfully inconvenient to resemble your father so strikingly sometimes.

Clyde Protheroe, the head of the department, stood up and shook Draco’s hand aggressively. Protheroe was a heavily-built man on the later side of middle age; he had small eyes balanced out by a generous nose and the remnants of his light brown hair were straggling from his temples. He was the sort of person Draco would once have delighted in mocking; now he bowed.

‘I’m so glad you could start straight away,’ Protheroe was saying, or rather booming, as he gave Draco a cursory tour of the floor. ‘We’re bloody busy at the moment, you know. All sorts of uproar with these new house elf laws, you really wouldn’t believe how tightly these old aristos want to hold on to their slaves.’

He speared Draco with a distinctly belligerent look.

‘We freed our house elf years ago,’ Draco said, careful to keep his voice neutral but not letting Protheroe outstare him. No need to mention that Dobby’s freedom had been granted accidentally.

‘Good, good,’ Protheroe said, instantly jovial again.

They headed back to Protheroe’s office, a spacious, woody room filled with pictures of magical creatures which, judging by the camera propped proudly on the filing cabinet next to Protheroe’s desk, were probably taken by the man himself. A small golden unicorn threw back its mane and stamped in one, while a lazy ramora floated just beneath the surface of the sea in another. Draco felt a pang of mortified embarrassment as he noticed a very familiar mane of bushy brown hair in the corner.

‘And, here’s Hermione, my personal assistant. She’s been an invaluable asset to this department.’

Hermione looked up from whatever she was scribbling but the warmth in her smile died when she saw Draco, tightening to a cool civility.

‘Nice to see you again, Hermione,’ Draco said, words which were neither true nor easy to say.

‘Draco,’ she simply said before returning to her work.

Protheroe was blathering on again but Draco could no longer take in the words. It seemed so desperately unfair that just when he was trying to carve a new life for himself, to try and do something valuable, this sabre-toothed, frizzy-haired little goodie-goodie should show up. A stab of anger at Hermione nearly caused Draco to make the sort of uncharitable comment he would have at school but he remembered where he was – he also remembered who he was trying to be. 

‘We’ll move you around as we need you,’ Protheroe was saying. Draco snapped to attention; this was probably something he should listen to. ‘As I said, we’re so ploughed under.’ He waved an airy hand to convey their unimaginable busyness. ‘So for today, I’d like you to lend Hermione a hand.’ Protheroe was oblivious to the stunned disappointment on Hermione’s face. ‘I’ve been inundated with letters, and not even Hermione can answer them all in a day, so it’s really a two-wizard job.’

Draco found himself agreeing and pulling up a chair on the other side of Hermione’s desk. Protheroe bustled off to deal with something else.

‘How have you been?’ Hermione asked with pointed politeness.

‘Well.’ A beat of awkward silence. ‘And you?’

‘Also well.’

Draco turned to the smaller of the two the skyscrapers of papers on the desk.

‘So, letters it is. Let’s just write and not annoy each other at all. I’ll just keep to my side of the desk and you keep to yours,’ Draco said jokingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Technically, it’s all my side of the desk. You’re encroaching,’ Hermione said but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

They worked mostly in silence bar the scratching of their quills and occasional cuckoo from Protheroe’s ridiculous clock.

The letters were mostly complaints and mostly stupid complaints at that. 

‘You can’t send that,’ Hermione said firmly, holding one of Draco’s responses.

‘Why not?’ Draco asked.

Hermione read aloud.

_Dear Mr Halfwit,_

_Whilst I fully sympathise with you losing a finger to your neighbour’s hippogriff, might I suggest that leaping over the garden fence in the dead of night to steal his garden furniture might, in some cultures, be considered ‘asking for it’. A good set of garden furniture which will stand the test of time is admittedly hard to find but you must always remember that sticky fingers are liable to be bitten off._

_Furthermore, my dear Mr Halfwit, you should not have called the hippogriff ‘a useless, overgrown pigeon’. I speak from personal experience._

_On a final note, I fail to see what you wish the Ministry to do vis-à-vis the hippogriff incident. Perhaps you envisage us turning back time and stopping you being such an idiot in the first place? If so, I can assure you that our time and resources are far better spent elsewhere._

_Wishing you all the best with future larceny,_

_Kind Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy  
_Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_ _

‘What’s the problem?’ Draco asked innocently. Under Hermione’s stern gaze, he held his hands up. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll be more professional.’

The day crawled on. For lunch, not relishing the stares and sniggers of the Ministry canteen, Draco headed for the nearest café. It wasn’t until after he had ordered that he saw Hermione sitting on the other side of the café, nose in a book. Draco pulled out his own book, The Wonders of Alchemy, and blithely ignored her.

The afternoon was much the same as the morning with Hermione occasionally shaking her head and getting Draco to edit his letters.

‘Are you sure I can’t tell her she was acting stupid?’ Draco asked. ‘Because that’s really not the same as saying she is stupid.’

And then it was the end of the day and Hermione was telling him to have a nice evening.

At home, Lucius was reading the Evening Prophet in front of the fire. He nodded curtly when Draco sat down opposite him, a distant welcome. As much as Draco knew his father loved him, apart from during the Battle of Hogwarts, Lucius had never been able to show that love. In a strange way, that had been the positive outcome of that night – he had realised how deeply both his parents cared for him, enough to set the Great Cause aside.

‘How was it?’ Lucius asked.

‘Not bad. Protheroe had me answering letters – a bit boring, to tell you the truth.’

Lucius snorted. ‘Answering letters! A Malfoy shouldn’t be working as a secretary.’

Draco forced himself to remain calm. ‘It’s a start.’ He restrained himself from staying it was better than being stuck in the manor day in day out but, even at the age of twenty, that would have earned him a clip around the ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry and Ron were waiting for Hermione when she finished work, Harry with a black eye and Ron with a bloody lip.

‘What got you this time?’ Hermione asked, pulling her wand out and healing them. ‘You two really need to brush up on your healing charms – it’s not that difficult, you know!’

‘You want us to do more studying?’ Ron looked aghast. ‘Hermione, do you know how many spells they have us learning? It’s, like, a lot,’ he said dramatically. As he met Hermione’s eye, he smiled a little awkwardly, reddening.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘ The Leaky Cauldron then?’

It had been a busy two years. Harry and Ron were swamped with Auror training and Hermione had gone back to do her final year at Hogwarts and been busy with the Ministry ever since. As much as she loved Ron, it had never really been the right time to start a relationship; at first they agreed that it was more important to focus on fixing the Wizarding world and they should stay friends in the meantime – and then as time went by, other things got in the way.

The Leaky Cauldron was full and noisy but there was a slight lull when they entered. People craned their heads to look at them, whispering and pointing excitedly. Three people came over to thank them and shake their hands, which was less than usual.

‘So, what did happen to your faces?’ Hermione asked.

‘Rounded up a couple more escaped Death Eaters. Avery and Holloway,’ Harry said succinctly. ‘How was your day?’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘You’ll never guess who just started in my department. Draco Malfoy! Protheroe had him helping me all day.’

‘That sounds quite satisfying,’ Ron said thoughtfully. ‘Malfoy, fetch me some coffee! Malfoy, my quills need sharpening! Malfoy, clean up these owl droppings! I could get used to that.’

Hermione smiled. ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

‘Why is he even there?’ Harry asked, taking a long swig of butterbeer. ‘He remembers he’s super rich, right?’

‘Well, so are you,’ Hermione pointed out. ‘You don’t need to work.’

‘Yeah, but I’m an Auror,’ Harry said with exaggerated patience. ‘Aurors are cool.’

‘I concur that we’re pretty cool,’ Ron said.

Tom would wordlessly sweep over whenever a glass was close to being empty, and filled it, refusing all payment. It was one of the results of the war that made Hermione uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right accepting freebies from everyone.

‘Thanks, Tom,’ Ron said cheerfully.

Harry glanced at his watch. ‘I better make this the last one. Ginny finishes practice in twenty minutes.’

‘Doing anything nice with her?’ Hermione asked.

Harry shifted his weight and grinned a little nervously. The look he gave Ron was sheepish and apologetic. 

‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you or if Ginny should tell you. We’re actually looking at some flats this evening. We thought it was about time we lived together,’ Harry said.

‘That’s wonderful, Harry,’ Hermione said firmly, wrestling with an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Harry and Ginny had glided seamlessly into an adult relationship, so why did she and Ron find it so difficult?

Ron blinked a couple of times, his mouth a little open. ‘Wow. Oh, er, wow. That’s great, mate. I mean, you could have given me a bit more notice, because now I need to find a new flatmate and everything-‘

‘Ron!’ Hermione hissed.

‘It’s a joke,’ Ron said, but his laugh was a bit on the weak side. ‘I’m very, very, very pleased for you.’

‘You should have stopped after the second ‘very’,’ Harry advised quietly.

As soon as Harry had left, Ron’s frozen smile thawed into a scowl. ‘Mum’s not going to be happy.’

‘Why - for the love of Merlin - not?’ Hermione asked. Well, truthfully, it was more of a snap. Perhaps the news had irritated her more than she cared to admit. ‘Your whole family adore Harry, he’s practically an honorary Weasley.’

Ron gave her a hard look. ‘They’re not married, Hermione. In the Muggle world, that may not mean so much, but here, living together before you’re married gets people talking.’ He gave the glass in front of him a particularly baleful glower, as though it were the glass which intended shacking up with his little sister out of wedlock. ‘He’s being disrespectful.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, that’s ridiculous!’ Hermione said. ‘The Wizarding world is conventional, yes, I realised that when I was eleven and saw all the quills and robes. But times are changing, you know? Dean and Cho live together, Neville and Hannah live together – and I spoke to Angelina the other day and she said she and George were considering moving in together. So you can stop acting the maiden aunt!’

‘Don’t even get me started on that,’ Ron muttered darkly.

‘On what?’ Hermione asked.

‘She was Fred’s girlfriend! George’s dead twin’s girlfriend! You don’t think it’s creepy they’re dating?’

Hermione would normally have admitted that it was a little strange but she was too fired up by self-righteous indignation to make any allowances.

‘I think it’s sweet that they’ve found comfort in each other,’ she said coldly.

Ron huffed. There was a long, awkward silence. Hermione jiggled her foot irritably.

‘They’re going to be sleeping together,’ Ron said. ‘Harry and Ginny.’

Hermione felt her cheeks heat in spite of herself. If she’d grown up in the Muggle world it probably wouldn’t have felt so awkward, but wizards didn’t talk about things like that.

‘They probably already are,’ Hermione said tactfully.

‘Yes, but it’s only ‘probably’. When they live together, it will be ‘definitely’,’ Ron said.

‘I’m going to the ladies’,’ Hermione said, because it was that or throw her drink in Ron’s face. Why did he always do this? They finally had some time alone together and Hermione had the perfect opportunity to bring up actually starting a romantic relationship – or at least deciding when in the future to start one – and he was being so RON.

When she got back to the table, she told him she had better get home. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

Ron visibly wilted, nodding glumly. ‘Well, maybe on the weekend, then,’ he said.

They might well meet up at the weekend but if they did it would only be to study. As skilled as both Ron and Harry were at catching Dark Wizards, when it came to the theoretical side of Auror training, they needed a little help. Besides, Ron helped George in the shop most Saturdays.

Hermione was too riled to go home just yet. Instead, she headed down Diagon Alley, which was abuzz with late night shoppers. She walked aimlessly at first, taking everything in with an excitement for magic which hadn’t dimmed since the first time she had come here. Her parents had been nervous and wary but Hermione had been bursting with elation, barely able to stop herself tearing down the street to look at everything at once.

Flourish and Botts caught her eye as she passed. She didn’t need any new books but the chalkboard outside announced new stock and it was always fun to browse.

Whimsical Jinxes  
The Joy of Plants  
How Charming!  
London’s Secret Community: the Founding of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley  
Beauty and Terror: One Wizard’s Account of Life with a Veela  
Squibs: What Went Wrong?!  
Phases of the Moon and Their Usefulness in Spellcasting  
Blood Magic: A Beginner’s Guide  
Ilvermorny: or ‘No school is as good as Hogwarts, but nice try’

Hermione should have known that her determination to just browse would have been futile. Excitedly, she grabbed half a dozen books off the shelf and read the backs. They all sounded gripping!

‘That one’s a bit of a disappointment, actually,’ a familiar voice drawled.

Hermione glanced up. It was Malfoy, also running his finger over the list of new titles, stopping and frowning when he saw something that caught his eye.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Hermione said haughtily.

‘The Dragon and the Egg,’ Malfoy said. ‘It’s got some nice pictures in it but it’s pretty dull. I suppose that in itself is quite a talent – making dragons dull.’

Hermione put the offending book back on the shelf. ‘I never think of you as the bookish type.’

‘I hide it well,’ Malfoy said. ‘Slytherins admire brains but they won’t follow an intellectual.’

Hermione may not have been overeager to engage in a conversation with Malfoy, but it was her favourite topic.

‘What was that book you were reading yesterday? In the café?’

He smirked. ‘So you did see me!’

‘I thought it would be uncomfortable if I said hello,’ Hermione said. She gave the charms book in her hands another thoughtful glance but reminded herself that she already had three very similar books in the house. Regretfully, she slid it back into its home.

‘I was reading a nice little book on alchemy, actually. It’s a recent hobby of mine. Have you read ‘A Malleable World: Transfiguring Everything’?’ Malfoy asked, holding up a heavy navy blue book for inspection.

‘It’s actually really good,’ Hermione said. ‘Definitely an improvement on the writer’s first work.’

‘Oh, yeah, ‘My Time as a Teacup’. I’d forgotten about that,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘What was she thinking? I couldn’t even finish it. But if you say this one’s better, I’ll give it a go.’

‘Oh, it’s worth reading!’ Hermione assured. ‘Which do you think I should get?’ she asked, holding up her two final contestants, ‘Triwizard Catastrophes’ and ‘Rare and Most Precious Magical Artefacts’.

‘’Triwizard Catastrophes’?’ Malfoy said with a laugh. ‘That’s your sort of book?’

‘I thought it might make some nice light reading. I need a distraction tonight.’

Hermione had said it without thinking, without realising who she was talking to. Malfoy looked slightly quizzical, tilting his head to one side, but obviously thought better of asking for more details.

‘Take that one then,’ he said. ‘We have ‘Rare and Most Precious Magical Artefacts’ in the Malfoy Manor Library. I’ve never read it myself but I could lend it to you if you like.’

The offer felt odd, stiff and unnatural. A hint of pink tinged Malfoy’s cheeks, perhaps because he was aware he was trying too hard to be ‘nice’.

‘That would be wonder- wait – library? Your house has a library?’ Hermione shook her head in awe. ‘I never thought I could be jealous of you. Does it have a lot of books?’ She tried to sound casual.

‘Oh, quite a few,’ he said dismissively, matching her nonchalance, but amusement twinkled in his eyes. ‘You know, mostly histories, some biographies of famous Malfoys. A few novels. Quite a few potion books and loads of ancient rune stuff. We actually have ‘Early Runes of Central America’.’ 

Hermione nearly moaned. ‘But there are only three copies in existence.’

Malfoy nodded, gaining a bit of his old cockiness. ‘That’s what generations and generations of unlimited wealth gets you. Well, I’m going to buy this book – thank you for the recommendation.’ With a respectful half-bow, he left her.

Hermione did buy the Triwizard book but, as thrilling as it was to read about contestants being carried off by a cloud of doxies or accidentally turning themselves into helium balloons, it was only moderately effective in distracting her.


	3. Chapter 3

Life at the Ministry actually wasn’t so bad. There was some variety at least, even though Draco was helping Hermione at least half the time. They sat in silence for most of the day but it was a companionable silence, unlike the hard, sometimes frightened silences he experienced with most of the others in the department. He was about ninety per cent sure that he heard someone in the corridor whisper ‘dark mark’ one day, but he had no idea who it could have been.

One Wednesday, Hermione swore loudly and stood up. 

‘What?’ Draco asked, tensing.

‘There’s a dragon on the loose in Tunbridge Wells!’

‘A dragon!’ Draco repeatedly stupidly, but Hermione was already off, her hair flying behind her. Draco leapt up from his chair to follow.

‘Why did they send the message here? This should have gone straight to the Minister,’ Draco said.

‘Because they’re idiots,’ Hermione said through gritted teeth. She barged into the lift and pushed the button for level one frantically. ‘I’m pretty sure Ron and Harry will be unreachable today, Harry said something about going undercover because they had a lead on some dark wizards. The ministry will be two Aurors down.

Shacklebolt had always impressed Draco with his ability to exude great calm whatever the circumstance and yet still deal with the situation as quickly as possible. Now, he nodded curtly as soon as Hermione had relayed the message. 

‘Can you go with the Aurors, Hermione?’ Shacklebolt asked as he scribbled memos to the other heads of departments. ‘Granted, it’s not your field, but you’re a proven fighter and we could use all the help we can get dealing with casualties.’

‘Of course,’ Hermione answered swiftly.

‘I’ll help, too,’ Draco added.

Shacklebolt gave him a wary, curious look before nodding. ‘Very well.’

The Auror department were getting ready to leave, coming up with a strategy to deal with the dragon. Longbottom looked rather sourly at Draco before turning his attention back to the head of department.

‘Longbottom’s an Auror now!’ Draco muttered in wonder to Hermione. She scowled at him and stamped rather hard on his foot.

They apparated to within a hundred feet of the dragon, a thirty-foot long beast with blackish green scales. It circled lazily, each beat of its wings sending a gale downwards.

The Muggles were terrified, running blindly in every direction they could, falling over each other to get out of the town centre.

‘If we use the conjunctivitis charm, it’ll panic,’ the tall, rangy older Auror said. ‘It might kill people in the process.’

Longbottom nodded. ‘We’ll have to stun it together.’

‘It’s too far away to stun,’ a small but stern-looking Auror said. ‘It needs to be closer.’

The dragon appeared to have other ideas. Issuing out frequent bursts of fire, seemingly for its own amusement rather than to attack, it headed east. The Aurors followed.

‘Aguamenti!’ Hermione cried, putting out a burning spire. ‘Come on, let’s check if anyone’s hurt down here,’ she said to Draco, heading down the street the dragon had come from.

Draco wondered what his family would have thought. It was one thing to avoid actively butchering Muggles, but quite another to go out of one’s way to save them. And yet, the thought of leaving them the burn was an impossibility.

One of the streets was badly charred, the cobblestones black and crumbling, some of the wood still burning low. Draco and Hermione jogged down it, putting out what fire they could, on the look out for survivors. The floor was littered with smoking corpses.

Hermione stopped suddenly, crouching over a man who was still alive, groaning in a primal, animal sort of way.

‘You go ahead,’ she said to Draco. ‘There’s bound to be more.’

It didn’t seem as though anyone could have survived this. Draco wondered what sort of buildings these had been: shops, cafes, or maybe just home. The fire left no clue.

There was a noise.

Draco froze, head snapping to the left. There it was again, a crumbling, rock-falling sort of sound. 

He found her, a little girl struggling to free herself from under a pile of rubble, her lower body pinned, dark hair plastered to her face from the heat.

Draco walked towards her. This couldn’t be real – someone so small, no older than five or six, couldn’t be in that much of a state. Surely her body couldn’t hold as much blood as was painted on the rocks around her. Surely bones didn’t stick out at angles like that.

She was crying, but in a soft frightened way, too shocked to scream. She reminded Draco of a little kitten.

‘It’s ok, I’m going to help you,’ Draco said, surveying the damage and wondering where on earth to start. The rocks needed lifting - that would be easy enough with magic – but it might do further damage, causing her to bleed out. He could start by healing her first, but that might not be possible with the weight of the rocks still crushing her.

‘Oh God,’ Draco heard Hermione say behind him. She too was looking at the little girl.

‘Move the rocks,’ Draco said. ‘And I’ll heal her as soon as they’re lifted.’

Hermione nodded, readying her wand.

Draco lowered himself down next to the girl. He wasn’t used to talking to children but did his best. ‘Now, don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart, we just need to lift these rocks and you’ll be as right as rain.’

She didn’t believe him. There was the wisdom which came with imminent death in her eyes. She reached out her hand for him to hold; it was tiny, lost in his palm.

‘Wingardium Leviosa!’ Hermione said, and the rocks floated upwards.

Draco immediately pointed his wand, muttering the healing spell. And again. And again. And again.

He felt Hermione’s hand on his shoulder. “Draco.’

There was blood everywhere and the little girl’s eyes were glassy, empty.

‘Draco, you can’t heal the dead.’

They managed to save four people from the street that day while the Aurors wrestled the dragon under control. Draco didn’t like to think of the number of people they had lost. Hundreds of Muggles – no, hundreds of people, hundreds of human beings, hundreds of lives.

‘Draco, please say something,’ Hermione said. There was kindness in her voice.

They were back at the Ministry, back in their own department, although neither of them had got much work done since getting back.

‘I never could stand watching people die. When I was a Death Eater, I thought that was my greatest weakness,’ Draco said.

‘It’s your greatest strength,’ Hermione countered.

‘That’s funny, because I don’t feel strong,’ Draco said, trying to smile. ‘Is it time to leave yet?’

Hermione looked at her watch. ‘Pretty much. I think we can go. Do you want – I mean, I can – there are spells to help you deal with the shock.’

‘No,’ Draco said firmly. ‘I need to handle this on my own.’

As soon as he was out of the building, he looked around, feeling the sort of confusion you get when waking from a dream. The world looked normal, unchanged. He sat down on a low wall, breathing in the chilly air. If he inhaled hard enough, he thought he could smell sulphur on the wind from the dragon, but that could well have been his imagination.

‘What are you doing, Draco?’ It was Hermione again.

‘I can’t quite face going back to the Manor yet,’ Draco said.

‘Okay.’ Wordlessly, she sat next to him, not touching but close enough for him to smell a hint of apple and coconut.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione had been sitting with Draco for about fifteen minutes. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking; he was just staring at the sky, arms wrapped around himself even though it wasn’t that cold a night for November. 

‘Do you want to go for a drink?’ she asked. ‘I know I could do with a firewhisky.’

Draco nodded. ‘Let’s avoid the Leaky Caldron. I don’t feel like being booed and hissed at right now.’

Well, if that’s what he wanted, there was really only the Muggle world they could go to. 

‘Come on then,’ she said, getting up from the wall and heading east.

They walked along the Thames, sidestepping tourists taking pictures of the boats and the bridge, nattering happily in a variety of language. There were stalls selling slow food and clichéd souvenirs like little red telephone boxes and teddy bears dressed up as beefeaters.

‘They’ve got ice skating rinks up already,’ Hermione said, more to herself than to Draco. A gaggle of small children were circling, falling, squealing, laughing, mothers shouting from the sidelines to be careful.

‘Ice skating?’ Draco said dubiously. ‘And that’s supposed to be fun?’

‘When I was little, I always knew Christmas was coming when my parents took me ice-skating. We’d go around holding hands – I’d be in the middle – they never laughed much, my parents, but they laughed when we went ice-skating. We’d share a cone of chestnuts afterwards.’

The memory surprised her. It had been years since she’d thought of ice-skating or chestnuts.

‘I should visit them more often,’ Hermione said softly. ‘I don’t think I’m a very good daughter. I bet you’re the perfect son.’

Draco made a so-so motion with his hand. ‘We spend a lot of time together but my relationship with them is too fraught with difficulty for us to be really close.’

‘Still,’ Hermione mused.

There were a lot of couples about, she noticed, leaning on each other’s shoulders, fingers interlaced. It almost felt as though she and Draco ought to be holding hands, too. Hermione almost snorted at the thought.

‘Look, here we are,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘The Black Heron. They don’t sell firewhisky, but the rum is good.’

‘What’s rum?’ Draco asked.

‘You’ll see,’ Hermione said, patting him bracingly on the arm.

Inside was small but cosy, cheery but not too loud. There were little wooden cubicles for privacy with stained glass patterns around the edges. The stone walls held shelves full of vintage bottles and the wooden beams were dark from years of smoke.

‘This is where I come when I need a bit of anonymity,’ Hermione said. ‘Also they have pub quizzes on a Tuesday.’

Draco looked around with obvious mistrust. ‘It looks a bit, well, Muggle. But I expect I’ll survive the experience.’ He sat down in one of the empty cubicles, looking distinctly out of place and uncomfortable. ‘Should we have changed into Muggle clothes before coming, though?’

‘In London? Honestly, nobody cares – and if anyone asks, we’ll say we’re part of a cult.’

Draco insisted on getting the drinks, a rather brave as well as gallant gesture considering how little experience he had with Muggles. He came back carrying a whole tray full of different drinks.

‘I don’t know what any of this is, but the barman swears they’re lethal.’ He picked up a Margarita and studied it in the light. ‘It doesn’t look particularly dangerous.’

Some time later, they were giggling like teenagers and Hermione found herself telling Draco about Ron.

‘I like him, I do!’ she said passionately. ‘I think I even love him. But how do you transition from friends who love each other to – well, you know…’

‘Lovers,’ Draco supplied usefully.

‘Well, if that’s what kids are calling it these days,’ Hermione said.

‘Just tell him,’ Draco said. ‘Explain to him that you want a real romantic relationship.’ The advice would have sounded wiser if Draco hadn’t been resting the side of his head against the table. ‘Maybe tell Potter to piss off and let you have some alone time.’

‘That’s an idea,’ Hermione said excitedly. ‘Go through Harry! Draco, you’re brilliant!’

‘I know,’ Draco said smugly. ‘I’m a misunderstood genius. Why is it that people always forget the ‘cunning’ and ‘resourceful’ part of Slytherin?’

‘Well, the ‘pure blood’ and ‘ambitious’ parts are generally more on display,’ Hermione said.

She put her head on the table, too, her face parallel with Draco’s. It sent a shiver through her to have their faces so close and so stripped of inhibition. His grey eyes, which had always been cold, distant, even glinting with icy cruelty, seemed different – soft and foggy, somehow. 

‘You want to talk?’ Hermione asked quietly.

‘I don’t know, I’ve never done it. I mean, obviously I’ve opened my mouth and formed words. But I’ve never talked about my feelings. At least not with anyone living.’

‘That sounds incredibly lonely,’ Hermione whispered.

Draco sat up suddenly, pulling away. ‘You know, I better get home. If I get any drunker I’ll splinch myself trying.’

Hermione nodded. ‘Okay, safe apparating. Let me know if you want to not talk again.’

As soon as Hermione stood up, she realised she was more hammered than she had thought; the room lurched and she had to grab the table to keep herself steady. Better take a taxi.

After fiddling with putting the key in her lock for about five minutes, Hermione remembered she was a witch.

‘Bloody alohomora,’ she muttered.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin when she turned the light on and saw Ron. There was a wilting bouquet of flowers in his hands and a grimace on his face.

‘Ron!’ she started. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been waiting here for hours,’ he accused.

‘Right,’ Hermione said. ‘But why have you been waiting here for hours?’

Ron thumped the flowers on the table and stood up. ‘I thought it would be nice for us to spend time together. I wanted to smooth things over after the other night.’

Hermione felt guilty – she had absolutely no reason to feel guilty, but she felt it anyway, Ron’s sulky disappointment worming its way into her emotions.

‘Sorry, but I didn’t know you’d be here,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

Ron gave her an indecipherable look. She’s never thought of Ron as difficult to read – he always wore his heart on his sleeve – but his expression was surprisingly cryptic.

‘You’re drunk,’ he said.

‘So?’ Hermione countered.

‘It’s one o’clock in the morning and your come home smelling like The Hog’s Head. That’s not you, Hermione.’

Hermione plonked herself on the couch, massaging her temples. ‘I’ve had a rough day. I saw a little girl die and I couldn’t help her.’

Ron sat down as well, and put his arm around her, brushing away strands of her hair to kiss her temple. 

‘You should have come to me,’ he said gently. ‘You shouldn’t have gone drinking alone.’

‘I wasn’t alone, I was with Draco.’

Perhaps if Hermione had been sober she would have realised the tactlessness of telling Ron than instead of being with him, she had chosen a night on the tiles with his mortal enemy. Of course, it wasn’t like that, but that’s how he would interpret the situation.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Ron said, stiffening. ‘You’re getting pally with Malfoy? You’re on a first name basis with him now?’ He let out a hysterical sort of laugh. ‘The bloke’s pure evil.’

‘We know that’s not true,’ Hermione reminded him.

‘Alright, so he wouldn’t kill, he stopped just short of that. But he had a whale of time tormenting us for years – the names he called you – the Inquisitorial Squad, Buckbeak, Weasley is our King, actually becoming a Death Eater in the first place! Have you forgotten all that?’

‘I haven’t forgotten. I know who he is,’ Hermione said.

She was too drunk to have this conversation. All she wanted was to eat a bucketful of cheesy chips and crawl into bed. She was certainly in no fit state to argue where on the good-evil scale Draco Malfoy lay.

‘Please leave me alone to sleep,’ she said. 

Ron looked taken aback. It was only later that Hermione thought he might have been expecting to stay over. 

She slept badly, her dreams full of charred meat, disturbingly close in smell to roast pork – white shards of bone tearing through fragile skin – the world was blood and fire – Draco was soaked in red, holding a body as small as a doll – she wanted him to cry, to scream, to rage rather than let the pain curdle and fester in his heart – in her dream, she had the strength to take him in her arms, holding his head in her hands –

* * *

‘You must have slept as well as I did,’ Draco said the next day, smiling wryly. His eyes were bruised by lack of sleep.

‘Very fitfully,’ Hermione said. ‘My nightmares kept waking me up.’

Hermione had hoped today would be a busy day, giving her a distraction. Well, she had her distraction.

At around eleven, Protheroe sent Draco to a different task to help with, some centaur liaison task; Hermione quickly saw it was a ploy to speak to her alone.

‘What do you think of Malfoy?’ Protheroe said seriously in a low voice.

‘He’s a good man,’ Hermione said. ‘Why?’

Protheroe leaned in. ‘We’re looking into how the dragon got there. There’s evidence to suggest dark wizards could be behind it, maybe former Death Eaters. We don’t know why yet.’

‘Draco defected before the end,’ Hermione told him firmly.

‘Well, yes, I know that,’ Protheroe huffed. ‘But still, I’d like you to keep an eye on him, find out if he knows anything about where the dragon came from. He might give you some clue.’

‘But-‘ Hermione started.

‘Just watch,’ Protheroe said, leaving no room for argument.


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Miss Peabrain,_

_It must have, of course, been an utterly traumatising experience for you to receive a right hook from that centaur, but perhaps trying to ride him was not the wisest course of action? Yes, they do look an awful lot like horses, but few take kindly to saddles and stirrups._

_I suggest you get in contact with ‘Madam Eldritch’s Stables’, as she is renown for breeding high-quality winged horses of all breeds. I myself once owned a particularly fine Aethonan stallion purchased from Madam Eldritch; I am sure he would still be going strong today had he not suffered a distinctly unfortunate encounter with a helicopter rotor. R.I.P Strawberry._

_With regard to the centaur in question, no, I do not deem it necessary to have him ‘chained up and horsewhipped’ as you have so imaginatively suggested. I am sure that having you corner him with a lasso was quite punishment enough._

_Wishing you luck with all future equine endeavours,_

_Kind Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy  
_Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures__

 

Draco had always been popular in school. Hell, he’d been the ringleader. His experience at the Ministry however was giving him a fairly good idea of what being unpopular must have been like: people knitted into shoals as he walked past, many not bothering to lower their voices. There was no dearth of dirty looks and a few snidely ambiguous comments. Draco could only comfort himself than he was an adult, not an easily-bullied child – and besides, he’d faced worse.

He’d thought it would have died down by now but his pariah status only seemed to be intensifying.

‘Don’t you want to turn the light up, Hermione?’ someone asked one day. ‘It’s a bit dark in here, isn’t it.’ She looked directly at Draco as she said ‘dark’.

‘Ignore Gwen,’ Hermione advised Draco, reaching out and touching his arm. She was a touchy, huggy sort of person, Draco had come to realise. It was not something he was used to but he found himself warming to it nevertheless.

‘Oh, I will,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve heard much more creative ones than that, anyway.’

She bit her lip, looking concerned. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the new rumour. I’ve been grappling with whether or not to tell you – sometimes it’s better not to know.’

Draco braced himself. ‘Well, now you have to tell me.’

‘They think it’s you who set the dragon on Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Who’s ‘they’?’ he asked.

‘Er – everyone, pretty much. There does seem to be evidence that there was foul play behind it – dragons almost never just appear in a heavily-populated area – but they’ve got no proof it’s you,’ she finished hastily.

‘Of course not, because I had nothing to do with it,’ Draco said, a hard bite in his voice. ‘It’s just one step forward, two steps back here!

Hermione nodded sadly. ‘If it means anything, I have great admiration for what you’re doing. Coming to work here in spite of what everyone thinks.’

It shouldn’t have meant much, but it did somehow. 

Later that week, Draco was called into Protheroe’s office alone. He wondered what fool’s errand Hermione had been sent on.

Protheroe and Shacklebolt sat behind the desk. So, they were going to do the whole ‘good wizard, bad wizard’ routine on him.

‘Look, Malfoy, everyone knows your family’s attitude towards Muggles,’ Protheroe said. ‘And given your personal history, we’re naturally going to be suspicious of you.’

Draco narrowed his eyes and instinctively put his hand to his left arm – to the skull permanently etched on his skin. Yes, he had become a Death Eater, stupidly, blindly, greedily, but he had been sixteen at the time. The mistakes most people made at sixteen didn’t follow them around forever.

‘Draco, we’re just trying to make sense of the situation,’ Shacklebolt said, more kindly. ‘If any of your old friends have said anything-‘

‘I don’t spend time with those people anymore,’ Draco cut in.

‘Well, who do you spend time with?’ Protheroe asked suspiciously.

Draco would have preferred not to say that he in fact had no friends and had spent the last two years in a solitude of his own making. Given the circumstances, though, he didn’t think telling the Ministry Officials to mind their own business would go down very well.

‘I’m a bit of a lone wolf,’ Draco said icily. ‘Are you actually going to charge me with anything?;

Protheroe and Shacklebolt exchanged looks.

‘No,’ Draco said. ‘Because you have absolutely nothing on me. I’m just your scapegoat.’

‘I’d keep a civil tongue in my head if I were you, Malfoy,’ Protheroe said angrily.

‘Is that all?’ Draco asked.

A beat silence. 

Shacklebolt nodded curtly. 

‘And Minister, if there are any openings in other departments, please consider transferring me. I don’t think my talents are quite appreciated where I am,’ Draco said.

His nerves were wound mouse-trap tight for the rest of the afternoon, his usual sang-froid on the boil.

‘…just like old Lucius…’

‘What was that?’ Draco demanded, spinning around to face the weedy young wizard who had spoken. He looked fresh out of Hogwarts with a baby face and a shock of gingery hair.

Babyface evidently had a surprising amount of nerve. Draco could muster a fair evil eye when the occasion called for it, but Babyface stuck out his jaw defiantly and latched his hands on his hips.

‘Was just sayin’ the Ministry hasn’t learnt nothin’. Look at what happened with your dad – Death Eaters and murders right here in the Ministry – and now they let you come swannin’ in like nothin’ has happened. Just gonna make the same mistakes as Fudge did. Bet you even paid them to let you slither your way in.’ 

Draco was not a physically violent person by nature. He inflicted enemies with plots and schemes and needle insults which hit just the right nerve. It was almost like he had a sensor in his brain telling him what would hurt someone the most.

On this occasion, his words failed him and he found himself shoving the little twerp against the wall and pulling his wand out.

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your bloody mouth shut around me,’ Draco hissed, jabbing his wand under Babyface’s chin. The young man’s eyes rolled back in terror like a spooked horse. Blood pounded in Draco's ears.

Draco stepped back suddenly, breathing hard. He shouldn’t have done that, not at work. People were already buzzing with anger around him.

He felt a hand on his arm and flinched, but it was only Hermione.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said.

A caramel frappe and a chai tea latte later, Draco had calmed down a bit.

‘I’m wondering if it’s easier to quit. Do something else,’ Draco said. ‘I was considering going into Healing – even with the catastrophe that was my final two years at Hogwarts, I got the grades.’

‘What made you decide against it?’ Hermione asked, dipping the biscotti into her latte.

‘Well, I’m not overly keen on the sight of blood.’

Hermione grinned. ‘You know, eventually, they have to get bored. You might go through hell in the meantime, but it can’t last forever. Then again, only you know if it’s worth it.’

Draco closed his eyes and imagined being back at the Manor, friendless and frustrated. ‘I think it might be.’

‘Ok. Well, be better head back in before Protheroe sends out a search party,’ Hermione said. ‘Oh, and by the way –‘ she suppressed a giggle ‘- sorry about Strawberry. That was no way for a good horse to go.’

‘I don’t know,’ Draco said. ‘He was an adventurer by heart, he would have hated a boring death.’


	6. Chapter 6

‘So you want me to help you seduce Ron,’ Harry summarised, looking slightly appalled.

 

She had caught him at work just as he had come back from doing something dangerous and before rushing off to do the next dangerous thing.

 

‘I’m not asking much,’ Hermione answered haughtily. ‘Just make sure he gets here, stay out of the way and keep Ginny out the way. Simple! Oh, and if you could give me some pointers on how to make the best cottage pie in the world, that would be great. I know how good a cook you are.’

 

Harry gave her a long-suffering look expressing exactly how he felt about being involved in someone else’s love life.

 

‘You know, you and Ginny might not be together at all if it wasn’t for my gentle nudges,’ Hermione told him firmly. ‘It’s time to return the favour.’

 

‘Eight thirty tomorrow – he’ll be there,’ Harry said with a reluctant nod.

 

Well, that was one thing to tick off her list.

 

She consulted her list.

 

_ Operation Romione _

  1. _Get Harry to agree to deliver Ron at 2030_
  2. _Buy ingredients for cottage pie (plus extra in case of kitchen-related disaster)_
  3. _Don’t forget the wine (and firewhisky in case Ron doesn’t like wine)_
  4. _Clean sheets on the bed_
  5. _Get cat hair off the furniture (maybe time to shave Crookshanks?)_
  6. _~~Buy lingerie~~_
  7. _Yes, buy lingerie_
  8. _Clear books off dining table, find suitable temporary home_



 

‘You seem preoccupied,’ Draco noted.

 

‘It’s nothing,’ Hermione said.

 

For some reason, she couldn’t possibly have told him. Despite their growing closeness, and despite the fact she had actually told him about the situation with Ron the other night, she felt deeply uncomfortable sharing her current plan.

 

‘You busy tonight?’ Draco asked lightly.

 

‘Pretty busy,’ Hermione said. ‘I need to deep clean my apartment and go to Tesco’s.’

 

‘What’s the spring clean for?’

 

‘Oh. Well, my parents are visiting me tomorrow. You know how dentists are about hygiene.’

 

Why had she lied? She wasn’t the sort of person to tell random, compulsive lies! Unfortunately, she couldn’t correct the mistake now without seeming crazy for lying in the first place.

 

‘What’s Tesco’s, anyway?’ Draco asked.

 

‘It’s a Muggle shop, they sell food. Sometimes I go to Diagon Alley, but Tesco’s is literally opposite my flat, so it just makes more sense to go there.

 

‘And the food they sell is edible?’ Draco asked, raising his eyebrows suspiciously.

 

Hermione couldn’t help laughing. Most wizards knew little about the Muggle world, eve those with a muggle-born parent, but not many knew as little as Draco.

 

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ she offered.

 

To her surprise, he accepted. He had either developed an uncharacteristic interest in Muggles or was incredibly bored.

 

It turned out to be an eye-opening experience for him; the Muggle pub hadn’t been vastly different from a Wizarding pub, but the supermarket was something entirely new.

 

‘How do doors open by themselves?’ Draco asked, wide-eyed.

 

‘Sensors,’ Hermione said.

 

The questions kept coming.

 

‘How does the frozen food stay frozen?’

 

‘Those stairs are moving! But… how?’

 

‘Why are there three thousand different types of bread? Bread is bread.’

 

‘How do they make stickers sticky?’

 

‘What are all those moving picture? I didn’t think Muggle pictures did that? And what’s Fight Club?’

 

‘Oh, we’re not supposed to talk about that,’ Hermione said seriously.

 

‘Oh,’ Draco said, putting the video down and picking up something else. ‘Has ‘American Pie’ got recipes in it?’

 

‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’

 

She tried to explain the concept of films to him but he didn’t quite get it.

 

‘I suppose you need to see it for yourself,’ Hermione said. ‘I’ve always liked a good film – I’ll show you one some time.’

 

Draco picked up another one. ‘The Blair Witch Project?’

 

‘Definitely not that one! My cousin made me watch it in the cinema with her and I was scared of myself afterwards.’

 

Hermione hadn’t realised there were so many questions to ask just concerning food.

 

‘What’s a cookie?’ Draco asked.

 

‘An American biscuit.’

 

‘If it’s American, why is it here?’

 

‘Globalisation. And deliciousness. You know, you’re starting to sound a lot like Arthur Weasley.’

 

Draco stopped in his tracks. ‘Take that back!’

 

With Draco stopping to look at everything, the simple shop took almost two hours, but at least he was on hand to help her carry the bags home afterwards.

 

A day later, Hermione was mildly proud of her accomplishments. She’d cooked what passed as a decent three-course meal – nothing was burnt, undercooked or dropped on the floor, anyway.

 

She was dressed in her most flattering midnight blue dress and had put a little bit of make up on. She’d also screwed up the courage to go to La Senza, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to buy a thong. French knickers with a matching bra would have to do.

 

Her hair was moderately well-behaved – she’d managed to get it to be properly curly for once. Knowing her luck, it would just frizz up again before the night was through.

 

There was a knock at the door. The butterflies in her stomach went berserk.

 

‘Hi Hermione,’ Ron said cheerfully, strolling in. ‘Harry wanted me to give you back this book. Lazy sod wouldn’t bring it back himself.’

 

Ron looked around. ‘Something smells interesting.’

 

‘Interesting?’ Hermione asked, irked. ‘Not lovely, delicious, scrumptious or yummy? But interesting.’

 

‘Are you expecting someone?’ he asked.

 

‘You, you daft dingbat,’ Hermione said evenly.

 

‘Oh,’ Ron said, comprehension dawning. He looked Hermione up and down and slowly started to grin. ‘You look very pretty.’

 

The evening passed without too much misadventure. The soup was a bit watery, but that was nothing a little salt and pepper couldn’t fix, and the pie was a little bit too cold by the time they ate it, but the ice cream was perfect. Fine, it had come out of a tub, but it was still perfect.

 

Ron, sensing the importance of the situation, was more suave and gentlemanly than usual.

 

‘I like your hair,’ Ron said.

 

‘Thank you.’

 

‘More wine?’ he asked, lifting the bottle.

 

Neither of them had much practice in wine drinking but found that after the third glass they didn’t mind the taste so much.

 

‘I want us to be together, Hermione,’ Ron said seriously. ‘We’ve always belonged together and it’s just a load of nonsense that’s kept us apart.’

 

Hermione nodded fervently. The apartment was starting to get warm and rosy. ‘Petty things, really,’ Hermione agreed. ‘Like when you accused me of fraternizing with the enemy for going to the ball with Victor, or when you randomly started snogging Lavender after I’d already asked you to Slughorn’s Christmas party, or when you abandoned Harry and me during the Horcrux quest. We shouldn’t have let things like that stand in our way.’

 

Now that Hermione thought about it, all those things were really Ron’s fault – but – well, they were getting on so well now!

 

Ron told jokes and did some cute impressions of people in the Ministry that made Hermione laugh.

 

_Draco does some pretty good impressions_ , Hermione thought idly. True, his impressions had always been cruel and degrading, but they were still pretty good.

 

They had taken their glasses of wine over to the couch and were reminiscing about Dumbledore’s Army and how much fun they had had, when all of a sudden Ron leaned in and kissed her.

 

It had been a long time since their last kiss, over two years in fact. She had forgotten how good a kisser he was, how adept he was at wiping every other thing from her mind. There was nothing in the world except the crackle of electricity between them.

 

They stopped, both a little stricken and breathless, and Hermione finished the last of her wine to give her strength.

 

‘Do you want to stay here tonight?’ she asked. God, why did her face have to go scarlet? She was a grown woman; she shouldn’t get this flustered by alluding to a little lovemaking.

 

Also red, Ron nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re sure, though. I mean, we’ve only just got back together and we’ve never done, erm, it before.’

 

‘I’m sure,’ Hermione said firmly, taking his hand. ‘We’ve both been waiting a long time for this. Like you said, we belong together.’

 

It was an awkward but very sweet experience.

 

Ron sat naked at the foot of the bed, not knowing what to do with his miles of arms and legs, hunched nervously. But the smile he gave her was tender and loving; he handled her with the utmost care, as though she were porcelain or glass.

 

‘I’m not going to break,’ she whispered to him.

 

He was covered in a thousand thousand freckles – too many to kiss in a lifetime – the skin underneath flushed pink – from wine, from lust, from embarrassment and everything in between.

 

And they joined, hesitantly and with shuddering anticipation, in the dark and under the covers. In the gloom, his blue eyes looked grey.


	7. Chapter 7

Dinners at the Malfoy Manor were a routine state of affair. When Draco was younger, there had often been guests – rich and pureblood and bigoted, of course. Sometimes there were other children, but it made no difference, as they were never allowed to play or talk at the dinner table. From a very young age, Draco had been dressed up as a tiny adult for dinner and was told to speak only when spoken to. As a teenager, he had been allowed to converse, providing he said something sensible – although he had misjudged on several occasions and earned the wrathful glower of his father.

There were never any guests these days. It was just Draco and his parents sitting around the absurdly large and ornate table, dressed in formalwear out of habit.

Draco had been distracted all evening. Lucius had been talking about something and on several occasions Draco found himself agreeing with him about Merlin knows what. His mind was elsewhere. Where exactly, he could not have said, but it wasn’t at the Manor.

Draco downed his glass of wine and poured himself some more. His mother looked at him with concern.

‘Is everything alright, Draco?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, putting his glass back down before he could gulp down its contents.

It wasn’t until later, when he was pacing his bedroom, that he realised what he was feeling.

It wasn’t something he felt very often – that sharp bite of sexual desire – but every now and again, it got under his skin, clouding his thoughts. An inconvenient reminder of his own humanness.

He’d always gone to Pansy for help. In school there had been plenty of dark corridors and abandoned classrooms to scurry into for release. Pansy was always enthusiastic, pleasingly warm and wet – but it also meant having her whimpering breathily in his ear, her hands crawling like spiders over his body. And afterwards, she always wanted to lie entwined with him, stroking his hair and cooing. 

Draco didn’t think he could face all of that at the moment. Besides, she was usually angry lately when he turned up, accusing him of neglecting her. Sometimes, she threw things at his head, but then dropped to her knees and sobbed for him not to go. It confused him.

Draco opened his window and stepped out onto the balcony, willing the air to cool his heated blood. The wine had probably been a bad idea.

He found himself thinking over the day.

Hermione had been in a good mood, humming to herself. Every so often Draco tried to guess the tune but she always shook her head, grinning. Her warm, russety brown eyes sparkled when she grinned. It must have been windy on her walk to work, or maybe she had slept funny, but her hair looked a little more unkempt than usual, wilder. Draco thought he could get lost in that hair, bury himself in it and never emerge. She changed it every now and again, wearing it as a sleek waterfall or delicate ringlets, but Draco found himself missing the chaos of her usual hair. 

Draco groaned, nesting his head in his hands. He could feel his body reacting as he thought about Hermione, remembered her fingers curving to hold a quill, the way her neck craned when she glanced behind her like it was asking to be kissed, the numerous faint freckles he’d noticed on her face and on her forearms when she rolled her sleeves up.

And that smile, that lovely smile that seemed to make the whole world brighter. How could he ever have thought her teeth were big? Had that ever been true or had he made it up to be cruel?

Well, there was certainly no way he’d be able to go to Pansy now; she’d be too pale a substitute for what he craved. He’d just have to take care of himself. Not for the first time, he was glad that his parents’ room was in an entirely separate wing.

The next day, Draco thought it was a miracle Hermione couldn’t tell he’d been fantasising about her. Surely his face told everything, revealed that he had soaked alone in the bath to the image of her lowering herself onto him.

‘Draco, are you alright?’ Hermione asked, frowning. ‘It’s just that I’ve asked you the same question four times.’

‘Must have been in a world of my own,’ Draco said hurriedly. ‘What was the question?’

‘Just what your thoughts were on the decoration for the fundraiser next week. Protheroe wants unicorns everywhere but I think it’s a bit tacky.’

‘Oh, er – I don’t know, what about bowtruckles then,’ Draco said.

‘Bowtruckles?’ Hermione asked.

‘Or hippogriffs or augreys or snidgets,’ Draco supplied.

‘Are you feeling quite well?’ Hermione asked.

 _Of course not, I’m falling for you,_ Draco thought savagely. 

‘You don’t seem to have got much work done,’ she added.

_I’ve been too busy thinking about you._

Draco forced himself to offer a shaky smile. ‘Just one of those days, you know.’

In a way, Draco supposed it was nice to have something different to worry about; this was definitely a bigger, scarier problem than that of people gossiping about him.

For a brief, insane second, he allowed himself to imagine asking her out. She’d look a little surprised but mostly flattered. Even considering his present vilification, Draco was quite the catch. Maybe they would go dancing. Draco was a skilled dancer, and the soft, romantic music would send her straight into his arms. She would sigh and lean her head on his shoulder, her long, supple body flush against his.

Indulging in fantasy had been a mistake.

‘Come on, it’s time to go!’ Hermione said, shaking him out of his daydream.

It had become their little custom to ride out of the Ministry together, often chatting a bit on the street above before going home. It had happened without Draco really realising about it. Neither of them really needed to exit the Ministry building – they could have just apparated straight home. On his part, it had become a way to prolong their conversation; perhaps the same was true for Hermione.

Draco was just about to suggest the Black Heron when Ron Weasley came sauntering out of nowhere like the cat who’d got the cream.

‘Hi, honey,’ he practically purred, sweeping Hermione up in a most unnecessary kiss. Draco despised every stupid ginger hair on his stupid head.

‘Oh, isn’t that just adorable,’ Draco said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Didn’t think your brother even stocked that much love potion for you to get a girl, Weasley.’

‘Aren’t singles bitter?’ Ron said to Hermione. ‘Don’t worry, Malfoy, I’m sure Mummy and Daddy will find you a nice little Death Eater wife… eventually. Too bad Auntie Bella croaked or you could have had her – I know purebloods like to keep it in the family!’

‘You’re pureblood, too, asshat,’ Draco said through gritted teeth.

‘Both of you, stop it!’ Hermione said sternly. ‘We all fought on the same side in the end.’

‘At the eleventh hour,’ Ron said, scowling.

With a mocking bow, Draco stormed off. He refused to glance backwards but in the end couldn’t resist; Hermione and that giraffe of a Weasley were walking in the opposite direction, holding hands. Something painful snapped in Draco’s chest.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the night.

Draco turned around quickly, trying to figure out where the noise had come from.

There were more screams, shouts, noises of panic.

It should have meant nothing to Draco. He wasn’t a hero, after all. He was not the kind of person songs were written about.

‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake,’ Draco groaned, heading in the direction of the screams.


	8. Chapter 8

Without a second’s hesitation, Hermione and Ron sprinted off in the direction of the screams.

‘I think it’s on the other side of the park,’ Ron huffed.

He was right.

They burst into a little square, all decked out in silvery Christmas decorations. In the middle was a thirty-foot spruce covered in golden bells and strings of tinsel. People had been sitting about in cafes, resting from doing their Christmas shopping, chatting, sipping hot drinks.

Now they were mad with fear and despair; a dozen or so gliding, cloaked dementors floated about the square, unseen by the Muggles below but no less effective because of it. Some of the Muggles seemed to want to run away but had no idea which direction to head in. 

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’ Hermione heard Ron shout, his quick little terrier patronus darting from his wand. Hermione’s otter joined it, and the two charged towards the dementors.

‘There’s too many of them,’ Hermione cried, feeling the telltale tendrils of despair latch onto her.

Ron nodded furiously, keeping his wand held. ‘We can’t risk leaving to get more help. Others must be on their way – we can’t be the only ones who heard the screams!’

On cue, a small but blazingly bright toad patronus bounded forward; the dementors retreated further.

‘Neville!’ Hermione shouted joyfully, looking around for him.

And then a dragon patronus, breathing silver flames, soared to join the others.

On the other side of the square, Draco was holding his wand aloft, looking quietly determined.

‘Make a circle around them!’ Neville bellowed. ‘We can’t let any escape!’

The four of them spread out, hemming in the dementors, and the loathsome creatures huddled inwards, their eerie breath rattling into a hiss. They were angry.

‘Hermione, see who’s left at the Ministry to help us get rid of these creeps,’ Neville said.

Hermione was about to ask why her – then she realised that Neville and Ron were both nearly-trained Aurors and had stronger Patronuses that her, and they probably didn’t trust Draco enough to send him. She looked over, trying to catch his eye, but he was too focused on his patronus. It was a beautiful thing, arching its enormous wings, even if it didn’t shine quite so brightly as the other three. It was probably natural that he found it difficult after having had so much to do with dark magic.

‘Fine,’ Hermione said, lowering her wand and apparating straight to Kingsley’s office. Thankfully, he was working late, hunched and frowning over some parchment.

‘There are dementors in Thackerey Square,’ Hermione said without preamble.

At once, Kingsley stood up and set about collecting as many people as he could. 

‘Thank you, Hermione, go back and help them, I’ll send more people when I can,’ Kingsley called back to her.

Back at the square, the Muggles seemed to be calming down. Although overt displays of magic usually spooked Muggles, they seemed to find the patronuses too delightful to fear. One woman had to hold the hand of her small son very tightly as he showed signs of wanting to try and catch Neville’s toad.

More wizards apparated in, whoever had been on hand at the Ministry. Hermione recognised some Obliviators amongst them, who calmly started doing their rounds abound the square, erasing memories one at a time.

‘Hermione,’ called the deep, comforting voice of Kingsley; he motioned for her to walk with him. Hermione glanced quickly back – by now, the dementors were completely subdued, caged in by a menagerie of spiritlike animals. There was no longer, she noticed, a dragon among them.

‘Yes, Minister?’ Hermione asked, falling in step with him.

‘I believe Mr Protheroe asked you to keep an eye on Mr Malfoy,’ Kingsley started.

‘On your orders, I presume,’ Hermione said.

Kinglsey smiled gently. ‘I need to protect my employees, as I’m sure you understand. My instincts tell me that Mr Malfoy is truly repentant over his actions during the war – I saw him on trial, and I’ve heard Harry’s account of his behaviour, so I don’t believe him to be evil by nature. But I’ve believed wrongly in the past as much as anyone else has.’ Here he stopped and frowned deeply, grappling with whatever he was thinking of saying. ‘I’ve seen you two together. You could be a good friend for him. I’m sure he’s in desperate need of one of those right now.’

Hermione nodded slowly. She supposed that was a word that could be applied to her and Draco – she was certainly beginning to enjoy his company, strange as that was to realise.

‘But you still want me to be wary of him – just in case,’ Hermione guessed.

Kingsley’s expression was somewhat painful. He wanted to give Draco the benefit of the doubt; Hermione could see it in his eyes. ‘It’s the sort of world we live in. And after all, whoever set the dragon on Tunbridge is quite likely the person who brought the dementors here – we can’t be too careful with this person.’

Hermione found herself agreeing to the task, her stomach twisting with guilt. She had just agreed to report to the Ministry on someone who was beginning to trust her.

She apparated home, pulling Crookshanks onto her lap for comfort; he closed his eyes and purred loudly.

Ron wasn’t long in following her.

‘Finally got them all locked away,’ Ron said, thumping himself down next to Hermione so hard she bounced up a little. Crookshanks darted away, hissing at the disturbance. ‘What did Kingsley want with you?’

‘He wants me to keep an eye on Draco. He thinks there’s a chance he’s involved somehow with the recent attacks.’ Hermione snorted in frustration. ‘But he helped tonight. He turned up when he didn’t have to!’

‘Which makes an excellent defence, doesn’t it?’ Ron pointed out.

Hermione groaned. It was so annoying when Ron was insightful.

‘Bloody show off, though,’ Ron grumbled. ‘Who has a _dragon_ patronus? Can’t he have a woodland creature like the rest of us?’

Hermione couldn’t help but grin at that. It was _exactly_ like a Malfoy to have such an outlandish patronus. As a family, they weren’t the nicest bunch, but they did have a certain panache.

‘You want to talk about him all evening?’ Hermione teased, reaching forward to run her fingers through Ron’s hair.

His face split into a grin. ‘Draco who?’

Her and Ron’s relationship was going surprisingly well. It had only been a couple of days since they’d decided to make a proper go of it, but it felt surprisingly natural. She was almost annoyed at herself for not being more proactive sooner.

Ron seemed to read her mind. He took her hand, entwining their fingers. ‘I’m glad we’re finally together.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each finger softly.

‘I know, me too,’ Hermione said, feeling uncharacteristically soppy.

Ron’s mouth soon found hers and they were kissing, eagerly and clumsily, his hand on the small of her back. 

They were interrupted by an urgent rap on the door.

‘We can ignore that,’ Hermione whispered.

‘Let me in!’ Harry shouted from the other side of the door. ‘This is really important!’

‘Un. Be. Lievable,’ Ron grunted.

Hermione opened the door and Harry burst in.

‘Cup of tea?’ Hermione asked.

‘Mate, this isn’t on,’ Ron said seriously. ‘Unless there’s a manticore on the loose this time… oh, bloody hell, it’s a manticore, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ Harry said tersely, waving away Hermione’s offer of tea.

‘Lethifold? Chimaera? As long as it’s not an acromantula!’

‘No,’ Harry said, sitting down firmly. His expression caused the smile to vanish from Ron’s face.

‘I got an owl from Kingsley about the Dementor attack,’ Harry said. ‘The one time I don’t stay late at work and this happens! It’s like the universe is trying to tell me something.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Harry,’ Hermione soothed. ‘You have to have a life as well. Besides, the rest of us managed fairly well without you.’

Harry nodded, raking his hands through his hair and making it ever messier. ‘So I apparated to the Ministry as soon as I heard. The Dementors had been taken care of by then but I spoke to Kingsley anyway. I stayed for a bit and we had a look over all the information we had about dark wizards not yet in jail.’

Here his eyes met Hermione’s; it was as though there were a pale, sharp-cheekboned, blond elephant in the room.

‘Come up with anything new?’ Ron asked hopefully.

‘Nope,’ Harry said. ‘Just going over old names, old information – but while I was there, someone raised the alarm. The Department of Mysteries was broken into while everyone was out fighting the dementors.’

Hermione heard Ron inhale sharply beside her.

‘What was taken?’ Hermione asked.

‘We don’t know yet. The Unspeakables will be up all night checking the inventory. The place is a complete mess – whatever they were looking for, they obviously didn’t know where exactly to look.’

‘Or they hoped the disorder would buy them time,’ Hermione suggested. ‘The longer it takes for the Ministry to realise what they’re up to, the more of an advantage they have.’

Ron was scowling hard; Hermione could practically hear the cogs whirring in his head. ‘This was a carefully-laid plan. There were less Aurors on tonight than usual. And the other day, with the dragon-‘

‘You and Harry were gone all day!’ Hermione finished. ‘Whoever wanted to break in chose two occasions when the Auror department was understaffed!’

‘Well, that’s not happening again,’ Harry said grimly. ‘We’re on red-alert now. Proudfoot’s doubling the nightshift, so I’m going back in now. You’re doing tomorrow night,’ he said with a nod to Ron.

‘Sure,’ Ron said.

Harry smiled weakly. ‘Well, I better get back to work then. Sorry for interrupting you two.’ A ghost of a smile flashed over his lips.

He disapparated with a soft ‘pop’.

‘I’ll get us something a little stronger than tea,’ Ron said, heading to the kitchen.

‘Good idea,’ Hermione muttered.

Ron looked strange navigating her kitchen, unusually domestic for him. He found her favourite cups, the ones with the purple butterflies on them and added exactly the amount of milk and sugar she took. He looked up at her.

‘You look worried,’ he said.

‘How can I not be?’ Hermione said. ‘We don’t know what this means.’

‘No,’ Ron mused. ‘But the war’s over. Whatever this is, things won’t get that bad again. I promise.’

Hermione accepted the tea from him, wishing it were a promise he was in the position to make.


	9. Chapter 9

It was snowing in Wiltshire. Draco sat out on the terrace, the hood of his cloak pulled snugly up, feeling serenity wash over him. There was something gloriously cleansing about snow.

‘First snow of the year,’ he heard his mother say from behind him. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, a shawl pulled around her; gossamer thin, he knew it was powerfully charmed to warm the wearer. As always, there was an eeriness to her perfection – every strand of hair exactly where it should be, make-up flawless, dressed with effortless elegance. 

‘It won’t stick,’ Draco said. ‘It’s too wet.’

‘Maybe not,’ she agreed, sitting opposite him on a wrought-iron garden chair. ‘How was work today?’

‘The same as usual,’ Draco answered. ‘I don’t do anything important. I write letters, mostly – I file things – I fetch tea for Protheroe – I summarise reports.’

Narcissa smiled and looked out at the lawn. In the darkness, it looked as though it lasted forever; a couple of white peacocks glowed like ghosts in the moonlight and one of them let out a haunting cry.

‘I always think that we never spend enough time in the garden. So much land and we’re almost never out here. I might walk over to the pond tomorrow, like we did when you were little.’

It was one of Draco’s most vivid childhood memories. Down a neat little stone path, half a mile or so away from the house, was a large, reedy pond. In the summer it was filled mallards and swans and coots and grebes and a dozen other birds Draco had forgotten the names of. Cormorants basked open-winged in the sunshine and when evening fell they were chased away by clouds of midges. His mother would take him there often, armed with bags of sweets and stale bread. They threw the bread for the ducks and when it was all gone they sat on a grassy bank and ate chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes.

‘It’s better in the spring,’ Draco said.

‘You always liked the cygnets,’ Narcissa said with a half-smile. It was true; he had delighted in the little balls of blue-grey fluff. Whenever he tried to get close though, the mother swan had snaked out her neck and hissed at him.

‘You do seem happier, I have to say,’ Narcissa continued. She took her eyes off the lawn and Draco got the distinct impression he was being examined. ‘Even if the position is not what you had hoped for, working at the Ministry obviously agrees with you.’

_Sometimes,_ Draco thought. There were times when he was dealing with a particularly dim-witted complainer who wanted to know how much he had to bribe to get a Nundu into the country ( _try all the gold in Gringotts and then some, my friend_ ) or when the crowds parted before him like he was a leper – those times were painful, grating and exhausting. There were other times, like when he and Hermione were talking about books or collapsed in a fit of giggles when Protheroe had come in wearing a puffskein tie over his robes, that he thought working at the Ministry was the best thing he could have done.

‘I saved some people today,’ Draco said suddenly. He hadn’t intended to say anything. He was trying to be a better person, after all, and if the saintly Gryffindors were anything to go by, heroes didn’t announce their good deeds to all and sundry; they waited for other people to spread the good word. Trouble was, he didn’t think anyone at the Ministry was on speaking terms with his parents, so if he didn’t say anything, they’d probably never find out.

‘It was after work. I saved some people. Some Muggles,’ he said with a sideways glance.

Narcissa had been looking at him intently, leaning forward. When he said that they had been Muggles, her eyebrows quirked up. She seemed to think it was funny.

‘Well, I saved their souls rather than their lives,’ Draco said, encouraged by her reaction. ‘There was a Dementor attack on Muggle London.’

She frowned. ‘Dementors? I suppose it was too much to hope we’d seen the last of them. Frightful creatures!’ She paused. ‘You were able to make a Patronus, then?’

She was looking at his left forearm. The mark was still there, of course, ugly and deeply etched.

‘It’s been years since I’ve had to make one. Your father has never been able to, you know.’

Draco hadn’t, not for sure, but it didn’t surprise him. Most Death Eaters couldn’t. It had felt like a sort of redemption when he had first cast one, knowing he was able to draw on such good magic. Would he still be able to cast the charm had he had the conviction to murder Dumbledore? He didn’t think so somehow – that would have been the end of him.

‘What’s your patronus?’ Draco asked.

‘A peacock,’ she said. ‘When your father saw it he declared it the loveliest thing he had ever seen and bought a dozen of its like.’

They sat for a little while longer, until the snow had turned to drizzle and any whisper of whiteness had melted off the grass.

‘It was a decent thing you did, saving the Muggles,’ Narcissa said. ‘There’s a goodness in you, Draco, there always has been. It doesn’t come from me and it certainly doesn’t come from your father, but it’s always been there. You might not remember, but you were such a dear little boy – before you started trying to impress Lucius. I worried sometimes that we had squeezed the goodness out of you.’

It was such a strange thing for her to say. She’d never cared much for Muggles or Muggle-borns – then again, she’d never harboured Lucius’ deep affront against their existence, and there was a world of difference between not wanting to spend time with a person and wishing them a painful death.

‘Mine’s a dragon,’ Draco said awkwardly and belatedly. 

‘How delightfully fitting!’ Narcissa said with a little laugh. ‘Now, let’s go inside before we catch our deaths out here.’

Draco followed her inside and went to his room even though he didn’t feel like sleeping quite yet. He had done something good – very good. And it was not because his hand was forced or anyone was watching him. He had done it because he wanted to.

Still feeling too awake, he decided to read.

Hesitantly, as though it were a betrayal, he reached into his bag to get the book Hermione had lent him.

Yesterday, having lunch at the little café near the Ministry, they’d got to talking about how magic was represented in Muggle popular culture.

_‘So this “Blair Witch Project” is inaccurate?’ Draco asked. ‘They’re just making things up?’_

_‘Well, what’s scary about that film is the unknown,’ Hermione said slowly, stabbing at a piece pasta. ‘You don’t know exactly what the witch is capable of or even what she looks like. There’s too little information given for any of it to be really wrong. Now, if you want a real departure from reality, watch “The Wizard of Oz”.’_

_Draco put down his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. ‘So, it’s about an Australian wizard.’_

_‘No, the wizard’s a fraud, it’s just a Muggle hiding behind a screen – but the witch has green skin, armies of flying monkeys, and she melts when you pour water on her.’_

_Draco refused to believe her._

_Hermione was enjoying herself. ‘In “Bewitched” they do magic by wrinkling their noses.’_

_In the end, she insisted on lending him ‘The Hobbit’._

_‘Gandalf is the archetypal wizard of Muggle imagination,’ she said seriously. With mounting suspicion, he took the book._

Now he looked at ‘The Hobbit’, wondering if he would burst into flames for reading Muggle literature in the Manor and what the hell a hobbit was.

He soon realised that a hobbit was a short, hairy Hufflepuff, a dwarf was a short, hairy Slytherin and a Gandalf was the same as a Dumbledore.

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on his window. 

Theodor Nott was standing on his balcony, tapping on the glass like an owl. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be good.

Draco quickly stowed the book out of view and let Nott in.

‘To what do I owe this great pleasure?’ Draco asked sarcastically. Broomstick in hand, Nott was soaked to the skin from flying in the rain.

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Nott said.

‘Evidently not. We’ve never exactly been on “popping by unannounced” terms – and yet _here_ you are,’ Draco said.

‘I need help,’ Nott muttered. ‘And for old time’s sake, I thought you would. Slytherins stick together, don’t we?’

‘Why is it that I get the distinct impression that I’m not going to like whatever it is you’re going to say next?’ Draco murmured to himself, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

From under his cloak, Nott drew out an enormous and incredibly old book.

‘I take it that’s not for your book club,’ Draco said wearily.

‘I need to hide it here,’ Nott said. Before Draco could protest, Nott added: ‘Malfoy Manor has more undetectable hiding places that any other house in the country. How many Dark artefacts are ferreted away under the floorboards?’

‘Less than there once were thanks to Arthur Weasley,’ Draco said.

‘It’ll only be for a couple of weeks,’ Nott said. ‘Promise.’

Draco didn’t want to agree. On the one hand, accepting Merlin only knew what Dark works into his home when the Ministry were watching him like hawks seemed like the height of folly.

On the other hand, Nott really did seem desperate, and he _had_ invoked the name of Slytherin. 

‘Fine,’ Draco said quickly.

Nott looked relieved and allowed Draco to take the book off him. It was heavier than it looked, the thick leather binding smooth with age. The title, faded but still legible in red ink, read ‘Le Veritable Dragon Rouge’.

‘Don’t open it!’ Nott practically shrieked as Draco went to lift the first page; Nott slammed it shut and fastened the clasp. ‘You can’t open it!’

As insatiable as Draco’s curiosity was at this point, the terror in Nott’s eyes was even more convincing, and Draco had a healthy respect for the damage Dark objects could inflict after growing up amongst them.

‘Alright, no peeking,’ Draco agreed. ‘Come on.’

He led Nott to the attic, a dusty and largely ignored room full of stacked boxes and overflowing shelves.

‘Here, at the back,’ Draco said. The last shelf was the only one free of dust.

‘These are all cookery books,’ Nott said, coughing from the musty air.

‘A great hobby of my mother’s, if anyone inspects them,’ Draco said evenly. He took Nott’s book and slid it onto the shelf – in a heartbeat ‘Self-chopping salads’ and ‘Fairy Cakes: Finding the Right Fairies’ had slid together to obfuscate it.

‘It can only be retrieved by someone who knows exactly where it is and what they’re looking for,’ Draco told Nott.

‘That should be good enough,’ Nott said, looking reassured.

‘Will you stay here tonight?’ Draco asked. ‘We have plenty of guest rooms made up ready.’

‘No,’ Nott said quickly. ‘No, I need to go.’ He hesitated. ‘Thank you for this. And for not asking too many questions.’

‘I’m sure the less I know, the better,’ Draco answered. 

Nott left the way he came, shooting off into the night, cape flapping madly about his shoulders.


	10. Chapter 10

‘You’ll be normal, won’t you?’ Hermione asked Ron seriously as they walked up to the redbrick block of flats. It was a pleasant building, ten or so storeys tall with a clipped lawn and flowerbeds in the front.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked. It was a frosty day and even wrapped up warm his ears and nose were red with cold. He huffed as they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. ‘I thought you said Muggles had already invented lifts?’

‘Just – oh, never mind!’ Hermione said, rapping quickly on the door.

Ginny opened it, beaming, her long red hair flying behind her from rushing over.

‘Come in, come in!’ she said brightly, beckoning them through to the little living room. ‘What do you think?’

It was a cosy, sienna-coloured room with cream furniture; Ginny had already filled it with little knick-knacks and homely touches. Harry was sitting on one of the squidgy armchairs, also looking pretty pleased about their find.

‘It’s lovely!’ Hermione said approvingly.

‘Nice place, mate,’ Ron said, nodding at Harry. His grin didn’t even look too false.

Harry made them all tea and brought over a plate of almond biscuits.

‘Fresh out of the oven,’ he told them with a grin. Hermione noticed how already the kitchen seemed to be his domain.

‘Thanks,’ Hermione said, taking a sip from her mug covered in Firebolts. Ron’s was covered in Snitches, Ginny’s with Quaffles and Harry had the Holyhead Harpies official mug.

‘How’s work?’ Hermione asked Ginny, the mug reminding her.

‘Great!’ Ginny enthused. ‘Really great, actually – they’ve just moved me from the reserves to the first team.’

‘Wow, Gin,’ Ron said, looking impressed.

‘Fantastic,’ Hermione agreed.

Ginny smiled, raising her mug to drink – it was only then Hermione noticed her hand.

‘Merlin’s beard!’ Hermione shrieked, looking back and forth from Harry and Ginny.

‘What?’ Ron demanded, alarmed.

‘Your sister’s left hand, Ron!’ Hermione said. A small diamond glittered on Ginny’s ring finger.

‘Well, we weren’t going to tell you yet,’ Ginny said, looking a little sheepish but also immensely pleased, allowing Hermione to examine her hand. ‘We were going to tell everyone together at Dad’s retirement party next week. I meant to take it off before you two got here, actually.’

‘Your Mum and Dad will be ecstatic,’ Hermione said.

Harry and Ginny gave each other a long, soppy look – it was not like them, but Hermione supposed it was a special occasion. She glanced furtively at Ron, who looked like he’d been Stupefied.

‘Er – wow – just, congratulations,’ Ron said, pulling Ginny into a hug. He then shook Harry’s hand, smiling. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better brother-in-law,’ he said sincerely. 

Even though they weren’t supposed to be celebrating until the following week, Hermione insisted on conjuring a bottle of champagne and four glasses.

‘To a long and happy life together,’ Hermione said, raising her glass and trying not to get too teary.

* * *

‘I think I controlled myself quite well,’ she told Ron later as they made their way back to Hermione’s.

‘You burst into tears when Ginny asked you to be her maid of honour,’ Ron pointed out.

‘Well, but apart from that,’ Hermione said, waving away that little lapse. 

The phone was ringing when she opened the door. Frowning, she glanced at her watch: nearly midnight. The only people who phoned her were her parents, on whose insistence she had bought the phone in the first place.

‘Hello,’ Hermione said, picking up the phone.

Ron, sensing her concern and picking up on the high pitch of her voice, sat down next to her.

‘Hermione!’ It was her mother. ‘It’s Dad, he’s been taken into hospital.’ She started to say something about an ischemic attack of some sort and not worrying and being stable and doctors being very reassuring but Hermione could barely understand the words.

‘Which hospital?’ Hermione asked tightly. Ron stiffened next to her.

‘St Catherine’s, in Peterborough,’ Mum said. ‘I’m here with him.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Hermione said. ‘I’ll be right there.’

When she’d hung up, Ron pulled her into a rough bear hug. ‘What’s the matter?”

‘Dad,’ Hermione whispered against his shoulder. ‘He’s had some sort of attack – I don’t know what it means.’ Ridiculously, the thought entered her head that she used to be excellent at science and if she hadn’t been a witch she would have immediately known what it meant – not that that would have helped.

She and Ron apparated straightaway, holding hands tightly.

Mum was sitting outside the room, looking smaller and older than Hermione remembered. At some point her coffee-coloured hair had greyed and thinned and there were lines on her face Hermione couldn’t recall being there.

‘Darling,’ Mum said, taking Hermione’s hand and squeezing it. She smiled but her face was white, her fingers nervously bunching up her skirt. ‘You needn’t have come all the way here, he really will be fine.’

‘Of course I came,’ Hermione said, gripping her mother’s hand back.

‘Hello, Ronald,’ her mother said to Ron. ‘Thank you for coming with Hermione.’

Ron nodded awkwardly.

They waited a thousand years or so in that painfully fluorescent corridor, doctors and nurses swiftly striding by, all looking frightfully important and serious. Hermione saw Ron looking at them askance and remembered the dim view wizards had of ‘Muggle nutters who cut people open’.

The clocks ticked, machines beeped and, in the end, a tall, young doctor with dark hair in an impeccably neat plait came and introduced herself as Dr Kent. Hermione and her mother held hands tightly as Dr Kent gently explained what had happened to her father and advised how he should adapt his lifestyle to accommodate his age.

‘We’ll keep him in for a few days to be on the safe side, but he should be fine,’ Dr Kent reassured. ‘Mr Granger is resting now. You should do the same.’

All her breath left Hermione’s body and she fell forward, burying her face in her hands. A horrific guilt washed over her. She hardly ever saw her parents – what if… She refused to let herself follow that train of thought.

Hermione insisted on driving her mother home; the older woman nodded absently, still in shock. By the time she and Ron apparated back to London, it was four in the morning.

‘I’ll have bags under my eyes for work,’ Hermione joked weakly, changing for bed.

‘You’re not thinking of going in?’ Ron said. ‘Phone in and tell them what happened, Protheroe would be happy to let you have the day off!’

‘No,’ Hermione said. ‘It won’t do me any good to mope around here, I need a distraction. You’ll come with me to the hospital after work tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Ron said, pulling her into bed and stroking her hair.

_Dad’ll be alright, he’ll be alright,_ she kept telling herself, ordering her eyes to shut and steal a couple of hours sleep. It failed and she was wide awake for the rest of the night, listening to Ron’s soft snore at her back.

* * *

Draco was already at work when she got in, writing the first letter of the day. Hermione peered over his shoulder, briefly admiring his beautiful lettering.

_Dear Mr Nincompoop,_

_I applaud your vivid imagination in attempting to cross breed a yeti and a troll but, while a part of me is morbidly curious to see you try, I am afraid I must urge you to desist. No, I do not believe that candlelit dinners or violins would aid you in your endeavour. Yes, I am sure your sister is a marvellous violinist, but she is still far more likely to get eaten than to stir the libidos of said creatures._

_Your next course of action would be to step away from the barn you have so hopefully converted into a love nest and await the arrival of Ministry officials who will remove your ‘gravely misunderstood’ friends. May I suggest taking up knitting or gobstones as an alternative hobby?_

_Hoping your head does not get ripped off before you receive this letter,_

_Kind Regards,_

_Draco Malfoy  
Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_

‘It takes all sorts, I guess,’ Hermione said.

She’d startled him; Draco jerked.

‘Sorry,’ Hermione said, taking her seat. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump.’

‘I think I was just too into this letter,’ Draco said, smiling so warmly at Hermione his eyes lit up. After the night she had, his smile was a balm. Suddenly noticing Hermione’s fatigue, he frowned in concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

Hermione opened her mouth but nothing came out. She knew the second she started talking about it her words would hitch and tremble and she wasn’t ready for that to happen at work. Instead, she closed her mouth and shook her head. Draco stretched his arm across the table and touched her hand very gently; it was like having a feather run across her skin.

‘You have warm hands,’ she murmured. ‘I always thought they would be cold.’

‘Is it Weasley?’ Draco asked. ‘Has he upset you? I know some pretty nasty jinxes, I could sort him out if you wanted.’

Hermione managed a smile at the seriousness in Draco’s expression. ‘And you would, too. No, it’s nothing like that. My dad – isn’t very well,’ she said. 

‘Hermione, I’m so sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Can I do anything to help? Maybe we can find a spell, a charm or something…’

‘No,’ Hermione said. ‘This is the natural ageing process. You can’t really out-magic Mother Nature.’

Draco held her gaze, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. He could do nothing to help but Hermione was fiercely glad he was there.


	11. Chapter 11

Knockturn Alley always seemed deserted unless you knew exactly where to look. For example, if you knew exactly where to stop on the street and exactly which window to tap on a Saturday night, you could walk straight through the wall and into the shadiest bar in the wizarding world.

‘I don’t really feel like it,’ Draco said, trying to pry his arms out of Pansy and Daphne’s vicelike grip. Blaise tossed a glance backwards and smirked.

‘You’ve been a social pariah long enough,’ Daphne said firmly. ‘We are going _out_!’

Draco had been to The Black Serpent far too many times before; during the months immediately after the war he’d come to soak his brain in firewhisky. It was either that or sleep, and he couldn’t bear the nightmares. As a result, the place held bad memories for him, memories of trying to listen to music louder than the screams in his head, of locking himself in the bathroom and trying to obliviate himself, of trying to curse away the pain.

‘I just don’t like it here,’ Draco said as Pansy took his hand and dragged him inside. ‘It’s too dark and noisy. Let’s go to the Leaky Cauldron.’

Pansy snorted. ‘You’re having a laugh? It’s packed with mudbloods!’

Only in Knockturn Alley would Pansy have dared say such a thing; the rest of the world was much more sensitive these days. It was a word Draco had grown up with and used himself more times than he cared to admit – but now he found it unsettling – he couldn’t disassociate it from the Dark Lord and the most ardent of Death Eaters – he couldn’t disassociate it with the hatred and contempt they said it with.

Feeling his resolve wilt under his friends’ gaze, Draco relented. ‘Only for a little bit, then.’

Blaise went up to order the first round of drinks. As usual, the bar was dimly lit in green with black tables and creepy, gothic photographs on the wall like dissected spiders and family portraits with ghosts in the background. In the corner, a black-robed band screamed at them.

‘We’re over _here_ ,’ Pansy growled at Draco, pulling his attention away from the surroundings. With a sultry stare, she took Daphne’s hand and lead her into a dance. The contrast between them was certainly alluring: short, curvy Pansy with her wide black eyes and tousled rich brown hair against the sylphlike Daphne with olive skin and silky golden tresses. 

Blaise returned with the drinks, leering and nudging Draco in the side so they could share a conspiratorial smirk.

‘Just give me that,’ Draco said, taking his drink and knocking it back. He sighed. ‘Well, it’s not rum, but it’ll do.’

‘What?’ Blaise asked with a blank look.

‘Nothing.’

‘Enough of the chit chat,’ Daphne said, taking her own drink and finishing half of it in one gulp. Still holding the glass, she pulled Blaise in for a long, lingering kiss.

It should have been a good night. He was out with his friends, dancing with Pansy who may not have been a great beauty but had an intriguing sort of attractiveness and definitely made the most of herself. And, most importantly, he was virtually guaranteed sex if he wanted it; she was grinding her hips against his, threading her fingers through his hair and biting down on her full, blood-red bottom lip.

Yet everywhere Draco looked, he saw the ghost of himself – he’d sat on that barstool sipping some sort of viscous black concoction the barman had offered him – in that corner he’d been punched unconscious by a lumbering half-giant for vomiting on his dragonskin boots – and over _there_ the gnawing sense of anguish had got so bad he’d carved his arm to ribbons with his wand, watching the blood ooze out with detached fascination. It had taken a hell of a lot of dittany for Narcissa to fix those wounds and the relief was only fleeting.

‘I need to get some air,’ Draco muttered in Pansy’s ear. He glanced over at Blaise and Daphne, but they didn’t look like they’d be resurfacing from their snog any time soon.

Draco pushed his way through the crowds, some people swearing loudly at him and others shoving back. He ducked from a drunken hex and it hit the wizard behind him; the wizard’s nose swelled to the size of a butternut squash, pulling the man down under its weight.

Out on the street, Draco gulped down the fresh air and pressed his head against the cold stone wall.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Pansy asked, nettled.

‘I’m not even sure,’ Draco said, closing his eyes and trying to settle his erratic breathing. ‘In there, it just reminds me of how things used to be. How I was just after the war.’

Pansy sidled up next to him, her strong flowery perfume overpowering Draco’s senses. ‘You were fun just after the war. We did all sorts of crazy stuff – partying, duelling, drinking – you and Blaise were always daring each other to do such funny things. Remember when you tried to steal those fingernails from Borgin and Burke’s?’

‘I was a mess,’ Draco said. ‘Now, for the first time in years, it feels like I’m not a mess any more.’

Pansy reached over, massaging his shoulders – a simple touch but comforting. ‘I liked it when you were a mess. In school you were always so perfect, so confident – it was exciting seeing you take risks, go wild.’

Draco shook his head.

‘I’ll always be here for you, you know?’ Pansy said.

‘I know you will. But perhaps you shouldn’t. Perhaps we’re not very good for each other.’

‘Aren’t you listening?’ she purred in his ear. ‘I don’t want _good_.’

And then, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do but let Pansy take him by the hand and drown himself in her, he went willingly. At least they were leaving The Black Serpent with its toxic memories and residue of nightmares behind.

Pansy’s bedroom, in stark contrast to the edginess of the clothes she wore, was pretty and pastel-coloured. Every time he came here, it unnerved him, as though he was seeing a side to her that he shouldn’t.

Pansy shimmied out of her robes, letting them pool at her feet and stepping towards Draco completely naked; her breasts were full, the dark nipples sharp, and her small waist beckoned to be grabbed. All in all, she had an excellent body and she knew it; her hips had a feline sway to them as she came closer to him. She took Draco’s hands and put them to her breasts – his fingers had to stretch to hold them. His hands preoccupied, she started to undo his clothes, smirking to herself.

_She’s not what you want,_ something inside Draco said.

_No. But she’s here,_ he argued back. 

Pansy’s tongue snaked into his mouth as she straddled him and he eagerly melted away under her touch.


	12. Chapter 12

Draco was quiet in work that day, often stopping and staring off into space for long periods before returning to his work. Once, Hermione was caught watching him curiously and he forced a smile.

‘Strange weekend,’ he said.

‘Mine too,’ Hermione said.

That grabbed Draco’s attention and he looked contrite.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Your dad – I can’t believe I didn’t ask you about it before!’

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ Hermione said. ‘He’s doing much better. They’re going to keep him in longer though – he’ll be there for Christmas, unfortunately.’

Draco looked sympathetic. ‘That’s rubbish!’

Hermione nodded. It was rather rubbish. Her parents loved Christmas. They’d tried to keep the Santa charade going for far longer than any other parents she knew – in the end, she was pretending for their sake rather than the other way around. 

‘There’ll be other Christmases,’ she said bravely. ‘Anyhow – what was so strange about your weekend?’

Draco seemed to be fighting with something, shaking his head in confusion. ‘Some of my old Slytherin friends turned up at my house on Saturday –‘ he rolled his eyes ‘- my father opened the door. They practically asked if I could come out to play.’

For the first time in days, Hermione laughed – the image was too ridiculous.

‘It was Blaise, Daphne – and Pansy, who I’m sure you remember,’ he said with a small smile.

‘Only exceptionally vividly,’ Hermione said drily. ‘No Goyle?’

‘No – maybe we ought to have brought him along, too – I’m not sure how he’s doing without Crabbe. They did sort of share a brain. Well, anyway, it was just a strange evening, seeing them again. I hadn’t seen them in a while and it made me remember why.’

He seemed loth to say more and Hermione didn’t push it. 

* * *  
‘Are you going to see your father now?’ Draco asked as they left the Ministry. ‘I could come with you if you wanted company.’

It was a sweet offer. Hermione looked at Draco in awe, wondering when exactly he had become sweet.

‘Not tonight, actually – it’s Arthur Weasley’s retirement party,’ she told him.

Draco’s lips quirked up. Apparently unable to stop himself, he said: ‘Arthur’s leaving? How in the world will the Ministry cope? What if they need someone to explain how aeroplanes stay up?’

Hermione gave him a stern look.

‘I couldn’t resist,’ Draco said

‘Try harder.’

The party was in full swing by the time Hermione got there, The Burrow packed to the gills with well-wishing friends and family. Streamers were streaming, drinks were flowing and the food smelled delicious. Hermione grabbed a mini quiche before sidling up next to Ginny and Harry.

‘Have I missed anything?’ Hermione asked.

‘Nothing much,’ Ginny said. ‘Hagrid sat on the cake and Fleur has given us a very thorough update on Victoire’s development. Turns out she’s very advanced for her age.’

On the other side of the room, a giggling eighteen-month-old Victoire was being passed around doting relatives. Very much like Fleur, she had only the lightest touch of red in her silvery hair. Fleur, resting one hand on her rounded belly, watched smugly as people raved over her little daughter.

‘Fleur’s positively glowing,’ Hermione said.

‘She’s always glowing,’ Ginny said grumpily. ‘When she’s pregnant, she glows twice as hard. It’s not normal that anyone can look that good when they’re _that_ pregnant, I’m telling you. Where are the double chins and the waddling gait? When I get pregnant, I’m sure I’ll look like the side of a house!’

Hermione grinned sympathetically.

Arthur was having the time of his life. Much to Molly’s dismay, most people had given her husband a Muggle-themed gift. There was a model mini cooper, a lollypop lady doll, an old word processor that nobody could figure out how to use, a microwave, a box of expired credit cards cut in two, a National Geographic, four light bulbs, a takeaway menu and a rusty chainsaw.

‘I have the sinking feeling someone’s going to lose a hand before the end of the night,’ Hermione said.

Hermione moved around the room, saying hello to people she hadn’t seen for a while. Bill was laughing with Charlie and Hagrid – he had finally cut off the ponytail and Charlie looked particularly sunburnt.

‘I’ve been in Sudan the past few months,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘We’ve found a new species we’re calling the Sand Dragon. It’s even bigger than the Ironbelly but it camouflages so well it’s practically invisible.’

Hagrid’s eyes were wide with longing.

George gave Hermione a warm smile and made a lukewarm joke about his Dad and the roll of sellotape someone had given him, but there was something missing in his laugh; he was only twenty-two but there was something of an old man about him. He and Angelina left only twenty minutes later.

‘He’s not been one for crowds much since – you know,’ Ron said quietly to Hermione, looking heartbroken. Hermione squeezed his hand.

‘Ah, Hermione, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you!’ came the jovial voice of Percy as he bustled over.

‘Have you?’ Hermione asked wearily.

‘Yes, see I’ve been trying to improve communication between the various Departments, which is proving to be a rather Herculean feat –‘ he gave a small titter ‘- you see, what we really need is _consistency_ , especially as we still have so much to rebuild. Protheroe is a very capable head of Department and a fine wizard indeed, but he does somewhat lean towards doing things his own way. You know, I’m not opposed to people taking initiative, but we can’t have complete mavericks running about. We just need to make sure-‘

‘Isn’t this something that can wait until tomorrow?’ Hermione asked, not wanting to be rude but needing a break from work. ‘I’m in about sixty hours a week – isn’t that enough?’

‘Of course, of course,’ Percy said pompously. ‘How dreadfully rude of me! I’ll speak no more of the matter – now, have you met my new paramour, Audrey?’ Beaming, he flung his arm around a lanky young woman almost as tall as he was with ruler-straight mousey hair and oversized glasses.

‘How do you do, Hermione,’ Audrey said solemnly. ‘I hope you’re well.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Hermione said, trying not to laugh.

As soon as the couple had glided away through the crowd, she and Ron exchanged a sly look and smirked.

‘They’re perfect for each other,’ Hermione said.

Hermione finally made her way over to Arthur.

‘Happy retirement, Arthur!’ Hermione said brightly, giving him her own present.

‘Thank you, Hermione,’ Arthur grinned. ‘Have you met Horus Qabbilar and Saul Croaker? They’re Unspeakables.’

Croaker, a rigid-looking man with a shock of white hair, looked vaguely familiar, but she’d never seen the lithe, golden-skinned Qabbilar with his large tiger’s eyes before.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Croaker,’ Hermione said, shaking his hand. ‘Mr Qabbilar.’

‘Please, it’s Horus. And I am sure Saul will afford you the same courtesy – we are at a party, after all,’ the man said smoothly, his accent a honeyed drawl. He reached over to shake her hand, too. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Hermione. Tales of your intelligence have reached even Level Nine.’

He held Hermione’s hand a little too tightly as he smiled; his hand was hot and firm.

‘Don’t embarrass the poor woman,’ Croaker barked at his friend.

‘I speak only the truth, and there can be no embarrassment in truth,’ Horus said, letting go of Hermione’s hand.

‘Er, thank you,’ Hermione said. ‘I’m doing my best.’

‘I have heard many things about your interest in these, ah, _house elves?_ Is that the English word?’ Horus said, grinning very widely. ‘What a peculiar investment of time for such a promising witch.’

Refusing to be intimidated, Hermione drew herself up to full height and launched into a spiel outlining the importance of outlawing slavery in all its forms and giving examples of the proof of elf sentience. Horus didn’t look the least bit affronted to be challenged in such a way; in fact he chuckled gently to himself.

‘He likes to get a rise out of people, Horus does,’ Arthur told her, finally drawing his eyes away from the remote control Hermione had got him. ‘He doesn’t believe a word that comes out of his own mouth.’

‘Infantile,’ Saul muttered, rolling his eyes. He picked up the remote. ‘And what in the name of all that is magic is this?’

Five seconds later, Saul looked as though he regretted asking the question; Arthur was gushing about the wonder of television and how the ingenious remote could be used to transfigure what one saw and heard on a television set.

‘It’s almost like a Muggle wand,’ he said, chest puffed out with pride over what Muggles could achieve.

‘Indeed,’ Saul said, putting it back down on the table.

Horus, who had disappeared into the crowd and reappeared with some drinks, handed a butterbeer to Hermione.

‘You know, Hermione, with a razor mind such as yours, you really must consider joining us in the Department of Mysteries. What better use for intelligence is there than to explore the mysteries of the universe?’

‘I actually prefer more concrete fields of study,’ Hermione said politely, although bringing up the Department of Mysteries did remind her of the Dementor and Dragon attacks. In the days that had followed, most people had heard that something had been taken from the Department but they had refused to release any more information. Perhaps, if Hermione used a bit of subtlety, she could get one of the Unspeakables to tell her.

‘Although I do have such deep respect for those who further our understanding of the world around us,’ Hermione added quickly. ‘What is it you do, if I’m allowed to ask?’

‘You know that you are not,’ Horus said, but it could not have been any clearer that he was enjoying himself. He took a sip from his bottle, playing with the neck. ‘I myself am employed in the love room, but I’m afraid I cannot be any more specific than that.’ He looked falsely sorrowful, letting his shoulders droop. ‘And I would so love to quench your curiosity.’

‘You speak out of turn,’ Saul said sharply, glowering at Horus. Saul clearly had a Percy Weasley-esque respect for the rules of the Department.

Hermione feared that was the end of the conversation but before long Saul was called away to join in a song and Arthur went with him merrily. It was a loud and cheerful song about a witch who fell in love with a vampire who had no interest in biting her.

‘Ah, how charming,’ Horus sighed. ‘But I do not know the words to sing with them.’

He turned back to Hermione and gave her a surreptitious wink. ‘I know what piques your curiosity. People have been asking us all week.’ He heaved a groan. ‘ _What was taken, Horus, what was taken?_ They ask me every day and poor Horus is tired of all this nosiness.’ 

‘I-‘ Hermione wondered if she could deny it and cautiously opted for the truth. ‘I’m sorry for bothering you about it – I know it’s not my place to ask.’

‘Neither is it my place to answer,’ Horus said. ‘But I am liking this conversation too much, I think. And curiosity is only a natural by-product of genius. You are not to tell a soul, of course,’ he added, pressing a finger to his lips to indicate secrecy.

‘Of course not,’ Hermione said, feigning shock.

‘What was taken on that unfortunate evening was a book,’ Horus said, dropping his voice to a whisper, big amber eyes burning with the enjoyment of divulging a secret.’

‘Just a book,’ Hermione said.

‘No, no, little Hermione, not _just_ a book,’ Horus said reprovingly. ‘One of the most dangerous books ever written. I couldn’t possibly tell you the name, you understand,’ he said lightly

‘No, of course not,’ Hermione said, a little annoyed at how much fun he was having by spinning her half-riddles.

Arthur strode back over to them and clapped Horus on the back. ‘Excellent party, absolutely excellent.’

‘Indeed,’ Horus said, bowing deeply to Arthur and kissing Hermione on the hand in goodbye.

‘Don’t take Horus too seriously,’ Arthur said quietly to Hermione once the strange foreign wizard has gone. ‘He’s too fond of mind games and likes to spin a tale or two if he can.’

Hermione thanked him for the advice and was glad to get back to Ron, who was brainstorming best man speech ideas to a chortling crowd.

‘I think I’ll tell them about the time you took a bath with Moaning Myrtle,’ Ron was saying as Hermione returned. Ginny raised an eyebrow at a reddening Harry.

‘It wasn’t exactly like that,’ Harry said, giving Ron the evil eye. ‘Actually, it wasn’t at all like that. Shut up, Ron!’

The party went on into the early hours and Hermione had to coax Ron home.

* * *

There was a memo hovering impatiently over Hermione’s desk when she got to work the next day – Kingsley needed to speak with her.

‘What do you need to talk to me about?’ Hermione asked him, having a very shrewd idea.

‘Draco Malfoy,’ Kingsley said predictably, closing the door.

‘You have evidence that he was behind the attacks?’

‘Not exactly,’ Kingsley said. ‘But it does look as though he’s been hanging out with the old gang – a fairly unsavoury group. And he was spotted in The Black Serpent last night.’

Hermione had heard of the club, of course – it was known as a hotbed for the Dark Arts and undergrounds creatures. Her stomach squirmed uncomfortably. _Why are you doing this, Draco? You were doing so well!_

‘Are you sure it’s not just someone spreading rumours to make trouble for him?’ Hermione asked. ‘The Malfoys are hardly popular on the other side either.’

‘Positive,’ Kingsley said. ‘We’ve had Neville following him.’

Hermione fought to keep her expression neutral. Neville must have noticed that she and Draco were becoming fast friends – did he judge her for it? For forgiving a former Death Eater? In a strange way, she judged herself for it. She knew that she should be holding more of a grudge for all that he had done and said – but the man he was today was so vastly different from the boy he had been that it was difficult to hold on to that old anger.

‘Well, I haven’t noticed anything suspicious,’ Hermione told the Minister. ‘I’m guessing that’s why you asked me here – but he hasn’t said or done anything remotely incriminating in my presence.’

Kingsley nodded slowly and leant back in his chair. His expression was impassive but Hermione thought she sensed disappointment.

‘Have you heard what was taken from the Department of Mysteries?’ Kingsley asked her softly.

Hesitating for a beat, Hermione nodded. ‘I know it’s a book – but I don’t know what.’

‘It’s a book which isn’t supposed to exist,’ Kingsley said. ‘If this book has fallen into the wrong hands – and we have every reason to think that it has – chaos will ensue. Can you find out if Malfoy has the book?’

‘But he was with us the night of the Dementor attack,’ Hermione pointed out.

‘Not the whole night,’ said Kingsley. ‘Besides, he probably wouldn’t be working alone. Zabini, Parkinson and Greengrass could all be involved.’

Hermione didn’t want to accept what he was saying, but niggling at the back of her mind was what Draco had said to her the day before. That it had been a strange weekend, reminding him of why he shouldn’t be with his old friends.

When Hermione got back to the office, Draco was sipping coffee at the desk, a coffee ready for Hermione next to the stack of papers she needed to go through.

‘How was the party?’ he asked, looking mischievous. ‘Were there little paper hats with pictures of plugs and toasters on them?’

‘No,’ Hermione said, trying to be haughty but unable to keep a straight face. ‘But there was a telephone cake.’


	13. Chapter 13

After weeks of trying to track him down, Draco had to admit to himself that it looked as though Nott had disappeared. It was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the gnawing anxiety over the contraband he had agreed to stow away for a short time and Draco was eager for Nott to get his arse over to the manor and take it off his hands.

It was a cold evening but Draco kept the window open, expecting Noctua to be back at some point in the night. He’d hoped that sending a letter at this time might yield better results since morning owls clearly weren’t doing any good.

She must have been searching hard because it was very late by the time Draco’s faithful eagle owl soared through the window to land gracefully on his bedpost. She held out her leg and hooted regretfully; the letter to Nott was still there, undelivered.

‘You couldn’t find him,’ Draco said. ‘Ok, never mind, Noctua, you tried your best.’

He gave her a quick treat then let her fly back to the owlery to join the other Malfoy owls.

Well, this was just perfect!

Draco paced his bedroom, trying to come up with a plan and failing miserably. It seemed highly likely that this book of Nott’s was the thing which had been stolen from the Department of Mysteries – which meant Draco almost certainly wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe he could sneak it back into the Department? But then, Nott wasn’t stupid, nor was he power-hungry – if he’d stolen it, it wasn’t for himself.

Draco groaned and threw himself face first on the bed.

As a last resort and because he couldn’t sleep anyway, he headed for the library. He’d been warned not to open the book so the only thing to do was to research the book. Lighting the oil lamp on the handsome aspen desk, Draco held his candle up to read the titles in a likely-looking section of the library.

 _Avada Kedavra to Zaparifo: a Handy A-Z of Curses_  
Cursed Jewellery Through the Ages  
Inventive Ways to Have Fun with Muggles without the Ministry Knowing  
Crazy Paving Designs (where had that come from?)  
_It’s a Deal! or How to Haggle for Dark Objects_  
Potions, Potions, Potions  
What’s love got to do with it? Amortentia as a lifestyle choice  
The Book of Books

Draco stopped. That looked like it might be useful. He slid the ‘Book of Books’ off its shelf and took it to the desk. As promised, it signposted the most useful Dark books known to wizardkind and where they might be found with a useful starring system showing how dangerous it was. Some of them seemed pretty nasty – there was a chapter on books that sucked you into them so you were trapped forevermore in a fantasy world, books that burnt your eyes out, books on Horcruxes and the most terrible kinds of blood magic, books that sliced your tongue off when read aloud, books that told you how you were going to die… Whatever Nott had brought him, Draco was glad he hadn’t risked reading it.

His heart skipped a beat when he found the right chapter.

_**Le Veritable Dragon Rouge** _

_Also known as the Grand Grimoire, Le Veritable Dragon Rouge was first discovered in the tomb of Solomon in 1750, purportedly placed under his throne as a temptation. While the book was briefly in the possession of Muggles, the International Confederation of Wizards decided that allowing such a dangerous object to remain in non-magical hands was_

‘You’re up late.’

Draco nearly jumped out of his skin. Lucius smiled thinly.

‘It’s nearly four in the morning,’ Lucius noted.

‘So what are you doing here?’ Draco countered.

‘I’m a light sleeper,’ Lucius said. ‘I’m always here at four in the morning. But this is they first time you’ve been here at this time.’

Lucius, even at this time of night, oozed glamour – neat hair, perfectly pressed pyjamas and his favourite cane all in place.

‘Bad dreams,’ Draco told him.

Lucius’ eyes slid past Draco to the book he was perusing. ‘That book isn’t likely to improve your dreams.’

‘Probably not,’ Draco said, closing it. ‘But I’ll take it to bed with me anyway – maybe I’ll fall asleep reading it.’

‘Draco,’ Lucius called as his son was leaving the library. The look in his eyes couldn’t exactly be described as concern but it was somewhere in the ballpark. ‘Is there anything you need to tell me?’

‘No,’ Draco said. ‘Nothing.’

He couldn’t help but look down as he climbed the helix stairs of the library – his father cut a small and lonely figure settling down in his usual chair. Draco wondered if he had always suffered from insomnia or if it was a recent development.

His father had been right about one thing – reading the Book of Books was not likely to lead to a restful night. Draco finished half the chapter on the Grimoire, tentatively underlining important parts in ink, before his eyelids grew too heavy. Putting it in his bag, Draco decided to finish reading it the next day.

* * *

‘Come on,’ Hermione said before Draco even had the chance to sit down. She’d been rushing around, giving her skin an appealing pink flush, and her hair was in fighting form. 

‘What is it?’ Draco asked. 

‘Someone left the gate open of a Puffskein farm in Trafford. There are Puffskeins on the loose all over Manchester. We’re being sent to round them up.’ She handed Draco a big extendable sack.

Ten minutes later, they were in the middle of the biggest poffle of Puffskeins Draco had ever seen. Thousands of little custard-coloured balls of fluff were bouncing about, humming happily at having found freedom. What didn’t make scooping them up and putting them in the bags any easier was the fact that the Muggles present seemed to think they were part of some sort of publicity stunt and kept trying to make off with them.

‘No, Sir, I really must insist you hand them over,’ Draco said to a middle-aged Muggle with big bushy eyebrows.

‘No way, these are mine, get your own,’ the Muggle said, gripping four or five Puffskeins close to his chest. ‘They’re cute as hell!’

‘Sir, I’m with the government and they are in fact a new breed of guinea pig which has been known to carry a number of deadly diseases. They’re a public health risk.’ 

The man dropped the puffs like hot bricks.

‘In fact,’ Draco continued. ‘I would go to the hospital straight away if I were you. Just to be sure.’

Draco grabbed the puffs and chucked them, squeeing happily, into the sack. On the other side of the road, he saw Hermione coaxing a puff away from a child.

‘No, sweetie, it’s not a cat,’ she said gently. ‘You can’t take it home.’

It took most of the day for them to get all the puffskeins back to the farm, especially as they enjoyed dodging summoning charms and liked to get stuck in silly places like down drains and up trees.

‘Just jump,’ Hermione shouted to one scared little puff on a high branch. It was quivering and letting out a high-pitched mewl. ‘I’ll catch you, I promise.’

A larger than average puff jumped on Draco’s head and refused to get off.

‘You’ve got an admirer,’ Hermione teased. ‘That one wants to go home with you.’

‘Not a good idea, my friend,’ Draco said, prising it off. ‘Unless you want to be an owl snack.’

Madam Copperkey was immensely relieved to have all her babies safely back in the farm. A compact-looking witch with a blustery, bouncing step and a frazzle of dirty blond hair, she offered them a heart-warming, toothy smile when they handed her the sacks and Hermione told her seriously that she ought to be more careful next time.

‘That was an impressive extendable charm,’ Draco told her as they sat down in a restaurant in the town centre. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner but they were both starving and a wonderful smell had come wafting from the restaurant. ‘I never thought we’d get them all in.’

‘I had my doubts when I saw all those puffs,’ Hermione admitted. ‘I keep worrying some managed to get away. What if Muggles get hold of them and it’s on the Muggle news. We’ll be a disgrace to the Ministry!’

‘Hm, let’s just not think about that,’ Draco said.

After they’d ordered, Draco leaned forward, ‘How’s your dad?’

‘Much better,’ Hermione said. ‘Thank you. For caring.’ Her smile filled her face as she reached out to touch his hand. Draco’s heart leapt it his chest. He wondered if this would be an opportune moment to confess his undying love and kiss her. Probably not. 

A week before, she had shown him his first ever film in the cinema – they had been passing just as it was about to start and Hermione thought it would be a good idea – it was hardly a gripping tale but there was a scene at the end where the tall, dashing man and the beautiful woman, who everyone knew from the first minute were going to get together, kissed. There was a sunset in the background and the music had swelled; her hair was blowing in the wind and the camera had circled them dramatically to show that, yes, from every angle they were gorgeous. Draco had glanced over at Hermione and seen tears in her eyes – he had decided then that that was what their first kiss was going to be like. He wasn’t sure how he was going to manage the music, but sunsets were easy enough to find.

Their garlic bread arrived, putting an end to any prospects of kissing.

‘Are you free tomorrow night?’ Draco asked. He’d had an idea in his head for a while and now seemed like the perfect time to act on it.

‘I don’t have any plans – why?’ she said.

‘I want to take you somewhere,’ Draco told her. ‘If you don’t mind.’ Hermione looked a little hesitant. ‘It’s not Knockturn Alley or anywhere like that. You’ll like it, I promise.’

‘Sure, then,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow night.’ And then, because a slightly awkward silence had fallen, she added: ‘They probably expected us back in the Ministry before now.’ She looked a little guilty.

Draco shrugged, supremely indifferent. ‘We worked through our lunch hour, so we’re taking a break now.’

‘Well, we shouldn’t be too late back,’ Hermione said.

Draco smirked. ‘A wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to.’

‘You read it!’ Hermione said, grinning. ‘Did you love it?’

‘I finished it and I did love it,’ Draco said. ‘I have it with me in my bag to give back to you actually,’ he said, opening his satchel to fish out The Hobbit. It was somewhere at the bottom so he had to pull a few odds and ends out first.

‘What’s this?’ Hermione asked, reaching for The Book of Books he had just placed on the table. 

Draco felt himself freeze, time slowing down. _It’s just a book,_ he told himself. _Nothing remotely wrong with carrying a book around._

‘Nothing,’ he said – but too quickly, too nervously. ‘Just a random book I picked up from the library. It’s alright.’

She was looking at him strangely now and no wonder. He might as well have painted GUILTY on his forehead in red letters.

He gave her back The Hobbit but the mood between them was ruined, taut where it had once been comfortable.

* * *

He was worried she would change her mind about spending the evening with him the following day, but after work she turned to him.

‘Where are we going then?’ she asked.

They walked most of the way – it only took thirty minutes and it was a beautiful night. Draco longed to hold Hermione’s hand but kept stopping himself. She was, after all, still with the Weasel and he didn’t want her to think him uncouth.

‘Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?’ Hermione asked.

‘Aren’t you enjoying the journey?’ he asked. ‘But don’t worry, we’re almost there.’

They turned the corner and Hermione squealed. ‘It’s an ice skating rink. I didn’t know they had one here.’

‘That’s right,’ Draco said, glad she was as happy as he had predicted. ‘Now it’s like Christmas should be, right? Like when you were little?’

She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek, filling him with delirious happiness for a brief moment. And then she was off, shouting about how they had to get their skates.


	14. Chapter 14

It had been a while, but Hermione was a decent skater – she circled the rink a few times with easy grace, giving a small twirl and feeling pleased when she didn’t wobble.

Near the entrance, Draco was holding onto the rail for dear life.

‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that,’ Hermione said, pulling at his arm. ‘I’m sure you can stand up unaided.’

‘I just fell,’ Draco hissed, his knuckles white from gripping the side. ‘It really, _really_ hurt. Did you know that ice is hard?’

He looked adorable – the tumble had messed up his white blond hair so that it fell into his eyes. He pushed it back from his face in frustration.

‘It’s all part of the experience,’ Hermione said.

Draco looked around to see if anyone could overhear them. ‘Maybe if I cast a cushioning charm-‘

‘Don’t be a baby,’ Hermione said firmly. ‘Look, give me your hands. Both of them.’

Clearly wanting nothing less than to let go of the rails, Draco slowly gave her one hand and then the other. 

_We should have worn gloves,_ Hermione thought but found she was secretly pleased. His hands were bigger and stronger than hers, his long fingers brushing against her wrists. Like the pampered rich boy, they were satin soft, warm in spite of the weather. 

‘Ready?’ Hermione asked. Before he could reply, she started skating backwards, pulling him around with her; they managed a small lap even though Draco’s legs were Bambi rigid.

‘Look, you’re doing it,’ Hermione said. He squeezed her fingers more tightly; it was like there was an electric current flowing through them.

A sense of guilt pricked Hermione when she realised she didn’t want him to ever let go of her hands. As much as she told herself they were just very good friends, she knew it was a lie. Harry was her good friend and she didn’t look for excuses to touch him; her pulse didn’t quicken when he smiled at her.

_I’m in love with Ron. I can’t betray him, even in thought._

‘What is it?’ Draco asked. ‘You look upset.’

Hermione forced herself to smile. ‘Just thought of my dad for a second. He skated like this with me when I was learning.’ She dropped her voice – serious, intimate. ‘I’m glad you brought me here.’

Then, with a wicked grin, she let his hands go and pushed away from him; they were in the middle of the rink.

‘What are you doing!?’ he shouted, freezing up. ‘How am I supposed to get back to the edge?’

‘You can do it,’ Hermione said, skating over to the edge. “Easy peasy!’ 

The look Draco gave her was murderous – an image flitted through her mind of him slamming her into the side of the rink, yanking back her hair and biting down viciously on her neck as punishment. She shook it away, glad Draco was too distracted by inching his way over to see her burning cheeks. His mouth was slightly parted in concentration, the tip of his tongue just poking out, his arms half-mast for balance. He skidded at the last second, falling into Hermione’s arms. A shiver ran through her at how good it felt for them to be pressed together; she wanted to bury her face in his neck.

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ Draco said, pulling back a little.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she said.

* * *

Hermione saw Neville in the corridor the next day and took the opportunity to talk to him, the fact that he had been tasked with tailing Draco still on her mind.

He beamed when he saw her; though their relationship had never been that close, he’d always appreciated her giving him a hand in class. That seemed such a long time ago now – the right wand, confidence and hard work had left Neville unrecognisable from the scared little boy who couldn’t charm water wet. 

‘Everything alright in the Auror department?’ Hermione asked, stopping and hugging her folders to herself. She had to approach this casually.

‘Everything’s ticking over,’ Neville said cheerfully. ‘Nothing especially dark happening that we know of.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Although Kingsley thinks we’re going to get more grief like the dragon and the Dementors.’ 

Hermione nodded, chewing on her lip. ‘He said that Aurors were watching suspects.’

Neville grimaced and looked at his feet. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve seen how much time the two of you spend together.’

‘He’s not like he used to be,’ Hermione said. She wondered who she was trying to convince, Neville or herself?

‘I can’t comment on that,’ Neville said tersely. ‘What I can tell you is he’s been spending time in Knockturn Alley and –’ he looked a bit flustered and awkward here ‘- I don’t want to ask what exactly’s going on between you and Malfoy but… he has been seeing a lot of Pansy Parkinson – and he’s stayed over hers a couple of times.’

Hermione had absolutely no reason to feel devastated. None. But it felt as though Neville had punched her in the stomach. She tried to reassure him that her relationship with Draco was purely platonic but he looked concerned – something must be showing on her face.

_You’re being ridiculous!_ Hermione screamed at herself. 

‘And,’ Neville added gently. ‘And I really, _really_ shouldn’t be telling you this, but Malfoy’s been corresponding with Theodor Nott.’

‘Nott?’ Hermione echoed. She vaguely remembered the sallow, slightly-built Slytherin who had hovered on the edge of Draco’s old gang in school, never quite belonging. As far as she knew, he’d never been directly involved with the Death Eaters himself, even though his family were big supporters.

‘We intercepted a letter. Malfoy just said: “Come and get it. I need this thing gone.” That’s all he said.’

Hermione thanked Neville for his help and advice and, in a daze, she carried on walking. She didn’t know exactly where she was heading; she’d forgotten what the folders she was holding were for. But she couldn’t stay still, not with this mountain of information on her shoulders. For the thousandth time, she yearned to know who Draco Malfoy truly was – the person she saw or the person the Ministry saw. She had absolutely no idea. As genuine as he seemed, she knew him to be a skilled actor.

Hermione pondered this for most of the day, unable to focus on her work and getting strange looks from people. 

Her lack of concentration cost her. 

Hermione and another employee in the Department, a loquacious brunette witch a few years older than Hermione called Janie, were sent on a routine Streeler check. Hermione was glad for once that Janie tended to chatter nonstop – it gave her time to wallow in her own thought. It was then, when she was replaying the image of Draco ice skating tentatively and trying to consolidate this image with that of a criminal, that Hermione brushed against a Streeler and got venom all up her arm.

‘Oh God, are you alright?’ Janie cried, rushing over.

‘Ah – it – ah, it was my own fault,’ Hermione said, wincing from the pain. It only took a second for the venom to eat through her sleeve and the flesh on her arm was already raw, the skin bubbling.

‘Straight to St Mungo’s,’ Janie said firmly.

‘I don’t need to bother with the hospital,’ Hermione started to say, thinking the Ministry had an amply-stocked first aid kit, but Janie would hear no more of it.

Feeling like an idiot for getting such a stupid injury, she duly made her way to the hospital and was sent to the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. She looked down at her arm with equal measures of agony and annoyance at herself. She wondered what sort of letter Draco would write her. 

‘Miss Granger,’ called the receptionist. ‘Exam Room one.’

Hermione hurried inside, striding past the rows of people with stings, bites, embedded spines and one man with a something green and icky with too many eyes wrapped around his face.

Hermione did a double take when she got inside. ‘Parvati?’ As soon as the name left her lips and the young witch smiled at her she saw she was mistaken. ‘Sorry, Padma.’

‘That’s alright, Hermione,’ Padma said pleasantly. ‘I’m pretty used to it. Streeler venom right?’ she asked, eyeing the offending arm.

‘My mind was somewhere else at the time,’ Hermione confessed, holding out her arm for inspection.

‘It happens to the best of us,’ Padma said.

Of course, Parvati wouldn’t be a trainee Healer, Hermione realised. Parvati wasn’t stupid but Healing wouldn’t be up her street. In fact, now that Hermione thought about it, she remembered someone saying Parvati had a gossip column with Witch Weekly.

‘How do you like being a Healer?’ Hermione asked as Padma went through the cupboards in search of the right potion.’

‘It’s fantastic, I’m nearly qualified,’ Padma said. ‘As you can see, they’re already letting me take a few more routine cases myself. You’re at the Ministry, right?’

‘Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures,’ Hermione said. ‘I’m actually working with Draco Malfoy at the moment.’

Padma gave a little smirk, reminding Hermione strongly of Parvati. ‘I always thought he was quite sexy in an evil way.’

Hermione’s stomach squirmed with sudden jealously. ‘I suppose. A bit pale, though, isn’t he?’

‘Nothing a bit of sunlight can’t sort out,’ Padma said lightly. ‘Are you still in touch with anyone else from school?’

‘Well, Harry and Ron and Ginny, of course. Harry and Ginny are engaged now.’

‘How sweet!’

‘And Ron and I are together,’ Hermione said, wishing she could muster more enthusiasm about it.

Padma giggled. ‘I think everyone saw that one coming. I remember going with him to the Yule Ball – he only had eyes for you the entire time. Of course, I was quite put out at the time but it’s rather romantic all the same.’

Hermione smiled as she remembered that night. It was the first time she had ever felt beautiful. Victor had gazed at her in awe when she came down the steps to meet him, something not even Ron’s later tantrum could take away. And there was that kiss – her first ever kiss – hidden behind the rosebushes. The kiss itself had been clumsy, their teeth bumping, but the moment was exhilarating.

‘Do you still see anyone from school?’ Hermione asked.

‘My sister, obviously – and Susan and I are pretty good friends – oh, I saw Neville and Hannah in Diagon Alley the other day, holding hands! Did you know? I haven’t spoken to anyone else for a while. Although,’ she said slowly. ‘Well, I’m not supposed to be shouting this about, but Theodor Nott’s here. Do you remember him from our year?’ she asked.

‘Here? A patient, you mean?’ Hermione asked, startled.

Padma nodded gravely. ‘He’s been cursed. They don’t know what it is but he’s in critical condition. Must be something incredibly Dark. I haven’t seen him but one of the others said he looks awful.’


	15. Chapter 15

Draco wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. He had taken Hermione ice-skating last week and they’d got on well – amazingly even. There was one point when she’d grabbed him to stop him falling when he’d thought ‘Weasel be damned’ and was about to kiss her

But since then she’d been distracted, distant. At first he’d hoped that there was trouble in paradise with Ron and that was getting her down, but now he had the feeling it was something personal against him. She was pushing him away and it stung.

He supposed it was for the best. Pansy had been hanging around more than usual since they’d rekindled their little trysts. She’d even invited herself over for dinner last night, basting both his parents with compliments and gushing over the beauty of the manor. 

On Friday, Hermione dropped the bomb. 

Magical Maintenance were obviously feeling especially festive that day as it was snowing hard outside the window, making Hermione’s little portable fire even more cosy; Draco was feeling relaxed.

‘You were friends with Theodore Nott in school, right?’ Hermione asked, her voice falsely light.

Draco’s veins flooded with adrenaline, blood thundering in his ears. Knowing she was watching him, he pretended it was nothing.

‘Kind of. Nott was a bit unsociable, to be honest.’

‘It’s just I heard he was in hospital – I wondered if you knew,’ Hermione said, still watching, too alert for Draco’s comfort.

Well, that would explain why Noctua couldn’t find him, Draco realised bitterly. It also meant that the book was probably far more dangerous than he’d first thought. He met Hermione’s eyes, wondering if she could see the fear in his. More than anything, he wanted to beg for her help – but her brown eyes were cool, wary. She didn’t trust him.

‘That’s sad,’ Draco managed to say. ‘I should visit him.’

Hermione nodded and returned to her work, her bowed head blocking Draco out again.

‘You know, Nott was never _bad_ ,’ Draco heard himself tell Hermione. ‘I did things during the war I wish I could undo – lots of us did – but Nott always had a distaste for violence. He avoided conflict if he could.’

Hermione looked up, her expression softening. 

Draco did end up visiting Nott after work. He needn’t have bothered – Nott was not quite conscious but still writhing in pain, his skin covered in bloody sores, his unseeing, clouded eyes frantic.

‘He’s in a dream state,’ a Healer told Draco kindly.

In shock, Draco nodded numbly, wanting to tear his eyes off his housemate’s ravaged body but unable to.

‘And you’re no closer to figuring out who or what did this?’ Draco asked.

The Healer shook his head. ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘It’s nice that you came.’

Draco wasn’t used to being called nice. Even now, he wasn’t being nice. He had only come because he was worried about his own skin.

Draco flinched as Nott let out a bloodcurdling scream, his head wrenched right back, the veins in his neck bulging. His hands clawed the side of his bed, helpless against the magical bonds that held him; Draco saw dried blood in Nott’s nail beds.

‘That happens every now and again,’ the Healer said. ‘We’ve had to soundproof these walls.’ He started checking Nott’s oozing bandages and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘It’s a complicated curse, whatever it is. The symptoms keep changing, mutating like it’s a living thing. I’m sorry, but I need to fetch more potion and I can’t leave you alone with him. You’ll need to leave.’

‘I’m not going to hurt him,’ Draco said coldly.

The Healer shook his head in earnest. ‘It’s not you. We’re not allowing anyone on their own with him. His aunt was alone with him last week, just for a couple of minutes. We came back just in time to get him off – he was strangling her. We don’t know how he got through the magical restraints.’

As if to confirm what the Healer was saying, Nott twisted his head to one side, snarling and feral. His cloudy eyes in Draco’s direction, he sniffed like a hungry dog, saliva dripping from his mouth.

A grin – long, slow and obscene – filled his face, lips drawing back from his teeth.

Draco couldn’t bear to stay any longer, even if he’d been allowed. He thanked the Healer and left. He wanted to go home. He wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and never come out again. 

With a sinking sensation, he remembered he’d agreed to meet Pansy. If there was ever a time he didn’t feel like it, it was tonight.

* * *

‘You’re taking me to dinner,’ Pansy crooned in his ear, her hand caressing the front of his robes.

‘Where am I taking you?’ Draco asked.

‘”Phoenix”,’ Pansy said. ‘I only want the best.’

‘Phoenix’ was certainly the best. The restaurant floated invisibly over London, decorated lavishly in black and silver, and was the most expensive Wizarding restaurant in Britain. It was Narcissa’s favourite. 

‘We don’t have a reservation,’ Draco said. At one time, the Malfoy name would have rendered that inconsequential but the world was a different place now.

Pansy pouted. ‘You have enough gold to get us in.’

It would take a lot to bribe the Maitre D on a Friday night.

‘Fine,’ Draco said with a sigh. ‘Whatever you want.’

They arrived just before eight. Pansy was decked out in cerise chiffon dress robes and Draco was wearing his favourite emerald green. The Maitre D gave them a snooty look as they entered but Draco noted the flicker of smugness that he was trying to suppress; he’d obviously already decided he was open to be being bribed. That made things easier – Galleons were unwieldy things, definitely not designed to be slipped subtly to anyone.

They were given a decent table, although that didn’t stop Pansy lamenting about how nice it would be to sit next to the window.

‘Well, give me more than an hour’s warning next time,’ Draco said brusquely.

‘What’s life without a little spontaneity?’ Pansy asked.

‘Easier to organise, for one,’ Draco said.

‘My, my, my,’ Pansy tutted. ‘My little dragon is breathing fire tonight. What could this be about?’ Her hand was squeezing his knee, her eyes laughing at him. Obviously he’d pleased her enough by bringing her here to make up for his bad mood. She usually had very little tolerance for grumpiness, no matter how well founded. 

‘Did you know Theo Nott was in hospital?’ Draco asked her. 

‘He was always so odd, that one,’ Pansy reminisced, picking at her bread and popping little bits in her mouth. ‘I didn’t, actually. I heard he was ill from my grandmother – you know how close she is with Ella Nott – but I didn’t know it was serious. He always looked a bit sickly, don’t you think?’

Draco hadn’t known about Liza Parkinson and Ella Nott being friends. Then again, Pansy talked quite a bit about people and Draco only listened to a fraction of what she said, so it seemed quite likely she had mentioned it at some point.

‘Nott lived with his Aunt Ella after his father went to Azkaban, didn’t he?’ Draco remembered.

‘Whiny old bitch,’ Pansy muttered, rolling her eyes. Draco reflected briefly that anyone Pansy had a low opinion of couldn’t be too bad.

Pansy quickly brightened up when Draco ordered a bottle of very fine old wine and their starters were brought over with ingratiating complaisance. Draco had enjoyed that sort of service so much when he was younger – his parents might as well have been royalty and he was treated like a little prince. Now, it just irritated him. Wars tended to do that, he mused – stripped superficial things of their charm.

‘The veal is fantastic,’ Pansy said. As the night went on, her hand found its way further and further up his thigh, annoyingly distracting. This was probably why he kept coming back to Pansy despite how exhausting she could be – she knew his body better than he did, knew exactly how to unravel him.

Draco looked up from his turbot in time to see Pansy’s simper harden into a glower. He glanced behind him – Potter and that Weasley girl were being seated a few tables away.

‘How adorable!’ Pansy said, making ‘adorable’ sound like a curse. ‘She must have cleared the family vault to get that dress! I bet she expects him to pop the question, silly cow!’

Ginny Weasley did indeed polish up well in floaty midnight blue robes that looked well outside a typical Weasley budget.

‘The Harpies pay their players well,’ Draco pointed out. ‘And Potter already did pop the question.’

Pansy’s eyes narrowed with distrust. ‘How do you know all that?’

The honest answer was Hermione but Draco bit back from saying it. Pansy had a habit of flying into a jealous rage at the mere mention of another girl’s name, no matter how innocuous the context – and she had always harboured a particular loathing for Hermione. The scene she had made in the Slytherin Common Room after the Yule Ball was still vivid in his mind.

_‘You were leering at her!’ Pansy had screamed, tearing a bow out of her hair._

_‘I looked at her,’ Draco snapped back, uncomfortably aware of the other students who’d gathered around to enjoy the little spat. ‘Everyone was looking at her. You looked at her. It was just an unexpected transformation, that’s all.’_

_Pansy howled and threw herself onto the carpet, burying her face in the plush emerald material. ‘I would never humiliate you like that!’ Her voice was muffled by carpet. ‘I would never eye up other boys when I was out with you!’ She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. ‘I never look at other boys full stop. I didn’t realise you were still shopping around.’_

_‘Pansy, my darling,’ Daphne sobbed, scooping her injured friend into her arms and glaring poisonously at Draco. ‘Don’t get upset over that arsehole. He isn’t worth it!’ Pansy nodded tearfully at Daphne._

_‘But I didn’t do anything!’ Draco said helplessly. ‘I just looked at Granger like I looked at everyone, out of pure curiosity. I looked at Weasley as well so I could accurately mock the disaster that was his robes!’_

‘People talk at the Ministry,’ Draco said.

‘I’m sure you don’t pay half that much attention to what I say,’ Pansy said with a little huff. He had to allow her that – he didn’t. 

Potter and the soon-to-be Mrs Potter were still finishing their dessert when Draco and Pansy left. Much to Pansy’s chagrin, Draco nodded at them as he and Pansy made their way out and stiffly offered his congratulations. Potter blinked in confusion before saying thank you and Ginny heartily said she hoped they’d had a nice evening.

Pansy was too high on the luxury of the evening to begrudge Draco his civility to Potter and had her tongue in his ear in the lift down to London. The granite-faced lift operator didn’t seem to notice.

In spite of her expert ministrations, Draco found he couldn’t perform that night. As soon as he found himself relaxing just a little bit, the image of Nott’s cursed body assaulted him – the seeping skin, the grossly exaggerated expressions of pain and hunger and the scrabbling hands killed his libido pretty dead.

‘Too much wine,’ he murmured to Pansy, staying her eager fingers. ‘I’ll do you.’

* * *

Ella Nott had probably been through enough. She’d been an active part of her nephew’s childhood since Nott’s mother had died, Draco knew. That wasn’t a surprise; Mr Nott was a very old man who didn’t understand – or care to understand – the ways of children. Draco had always got the distinct impression that he was being viewed as a nuisance the few times he had been in Mr Nott’s presence.

Then she’d been left to care for Theo on her own after Mr Nott was imprisoned. That couldn’t have been easy. And now all this.

Draco felt guilty for imposing on her when so much was already on her mind but he didn’t know whom else to turn to. In all probability, Nott hadn’t been close to his ageing aunt – perhaps she knew nothing about the book or the curse – but she might have noticed some clue, something which could point Draco in the right direction.

Located in Norfolk at the end of a meadow, the Nott residence which had once been Theo’s father’s was a tall, spindly, haughty-looking building. Narrow, almost spiky gables were ornately decorated, remnants of a former grandeur. Yet the house looked it need of repair; the dark upper windows looked like sleeping eyes and something was banging in the wind; the wooden panels could have done with a coat of paint and the drains were rusted through.

Draco traipsed up to the front door, crushing the long yellowed grass which poked stiffly through the snow. Avoiding standing directly beneath the wobbly-looking eaves, Draco knocked.

Ella Nott took a long time to come to the door; Draco could hear the thump of a cane and laborious steps. When the door opened, a frail-looking lady with flyaway steel-grey hair trembled on the threshold.

‘Draco Malfoy,’ she said with a watery smile, not the least bit flustered by her unexpected visitor. ‘Aren’t you the very image of Lucius! But I suppose you’re sick and tired of hearing that.’

‘Not at all, Miss Nott,’ Draco said. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you-’ he started.

She waved away his apology. ‘I need all the bother I can get, my boy. Bother is what gets me out of bed in the morning. But please – I’m far too old to linger out of doors with no cloak or scarf, so do come inside.’

Apologising profusely, Draco followed her inside to the living room. It was roasting hot and decorated in a rather old-fashioned manner. A gaggle of Notts eyed Draco with interest from their portraits and started to gossip amongst themselves.

‘Now, stop your clucking, you lot!’ Miss Nott said sternly, settling into the big armchair right next to the fire. ‘We have a guest.’

Lit up by the flames, Draco could see purple finger marks bruising her parchment-thin neck. Miss Nott saw him looking and smiled sadly.

‘You must have heard about my poor nephew. That’s why you’ve come,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his mind.’ Her voice broke and tears sparkled in her eyes. ‘I’m afraid in case there’s no Theo left inside that body anymore.’

‘I saw him,’ Draco whispered. He wanted to say something comforting – that the Healers were bound to find a cure, that everything would be alright, that Theo was strong and would fight the curse – all of it sounded trite and none of it sounded true.

‘I’m so very sorry,’ Draco said. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

‘There’s nothing else to say,’ Miss Nott said firmly, regaining her composure and reaching over to squeeze Draco’s hand with her knobbly fingers. ‘The fact that you’re here speaks volumes of your character. I’m glad that Theo has a friend like you.’

Draco didn’t think he could stand the misplaced gratitude.

‘Itsy! Bitsy!’ Miss Nott called.

Two house elves apparated into the living room with loud cracks. They were neatly clad in matching white dresses and curtsied to Miss Nott.

‘Bring some tea for Mr Draco and me, please,’ she said pleasantly.

‘Yes, Miss Ella,’ they chimed together and disappeared. 

‘I’m so lucky those two decided to stay on as servants after the law freed them,’ Miss Nott told Draco. ‘They’re both such dears.’

The house elves brought the tea, knowing in that mysterious way of theirs how Draco took his and bringing a plate of his favourite biscuits. Dobby had never done that. Then again, the Malfoys had never exactly given Dobby any reason to go above and beyond the call of duty.

‘Were you very close in school?’ Miss Nott asked hopefully once her own cup and saucer were secured safely on the coffee table next to her.

‘Er,’ Draco said.

She smiled in understanding. ‘I don’t think Theo has ever been very close with anyone. I’ve tried, of course – and I’m sure you’ve tried – but he’s not a social creature, is he? He’s a lone wolf.’

‘We used to sit together in some classes,’ Draco told her, searching for something to say. ‘In Potions. It was the only thing I beat him at. He always got top marks in everything, but I was better at potions.’

Miss Nott laughed, a light, musical sound. ‘I bet he hated that. He hated anyone being cleverer than him.’

Draco laughed too. ‘That was one thing we did talk about sometimes. There was a Muggle-born in our year who outdid everyone and we both hated her for it.’

‘A Muggle-born, how frustrating!’ Miss Nott said, shaking her head in wonder.

Draco took one of the biscuits, ginger filling his mouth.

After a while, Draco tried to probe for any information Miss Nott might have on the circumstances surrounding Theo’s curse.

‘I told the Healers everything I could,’ she said sadly. ‘And it wasn’t much use to them. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days before he was cursed. He was always out and about, always very busy, see. I didn’t think anything of it. And then he came home one night very late – Itsy and Bitsy woke me up. They were absolutely terrified of him! And as soon as I saw him I was, too.’

Miss Nott was staring unblinkingly into the fire. She must have been replaying the weeks up to Nott’s curse over in her head, wondering if she could have done anything differently.

‘Was he spending time with anyone new recently?’ Draco asked gently.

‘I don’t – I’m not sure,’ Miss Nott said. ‘He mentioned once that a friend of his was helping his get into the Department of Mysteries. He’s always wanted to work there, much to his father’s disappointment. He’s always been very intellectual.’

‘Do you know who this friend was?’ Draco asked.

Miss Nott shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Theo never gives me a lot of details. It always drove me crazy.’

Draco felt unendurably heavyhearted as he left the Nott house. That thing, whatever it was, was still loose and banging in the wind. Maybe he could fix it for Miss Nott, he thought, suddenly desperate for some way to help her. Draco turned around quickly to study the building, scanning for whatever hanging shutter or loose panel was to blame for the noise. In that moment, his heart stopped.

Someone was watching him. Standing underneath a skeletal, winter-bare ash tree, was a wizard cloaked in black, face hidden underneath the hood. The stranger disapparated so quickly Draco almost doubted he’d seen him at all.

A second thought occurred to Draco – maybe the spy wasn’t for him, maybe it was for old Miss Nott – a savage rage ripped through Draco unexpectedly at the thought of someone coming to harm that poor old witch with her twin elves she clearly doted on, who was so pleased to learn that her nephew had a friend who cared about his well-being.


	16. Chapter 16

Ron was asleep on Hermione’s couch, snoring quietly. He never could make it through whatever film Hermione put on. She didn’t mind – she enjoyed ‘Gone with the Wind’ just as much – possibly more since she didn’t have to answer all Ron’s confused questions.

She lifted her head from his chest, feeling a wave of affection for him, her long, lanky cluster of freckles.

And then guilt. Always guilt.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking about Draco.

She’d tried to push him away but if anything that made her want him more. She missed their chats, the way he smiled at her, the endearing seriousness with which he took himself, the thoughtful gestures. She missed how he said her name.

How she watched him! Shamelessly, lustfully, wantonly – stealing eyefuls when his attention was elsewhere. From his graceful, long-fingered hands to the tips of his white-blond hair, every strand of which was well-behaved and sitting tidily. She found herself imagining the parts in between. She wondered what his arms were like – he never rolled up his sleeves for obvious reasons so she had only his wrists as a point of reference, almost dainty-looking with the bone jutting out.

But this was all purely physical attraction, she told herself, and hardly the basis for a relationship. What she and Ron had was sturdy, like a house built of stones, and had the strong foundation of years of friendship propping it up. With Draco, she had none of that. If anything did happen between them – and she had a sneaking suspicion by the way he sometimes went pink when their eyes met that she wasn’t the only one to ponder the possibility – anyway, if anything did happen, it would just be a fling. They had absolutely nothing in common.

Hermione burst out laughing at the sudden image of herself going to Malfoy Manor for dinner and sitting across the table from Lucius and Narcissa in one of those grand, cavernous rooms while Draco told them he was marrying a Mudblood. Narcissa would probably break the wine glass she was holding and Lucius would whip his wand out and hex Hermione into a blancmange. They’d serve her to Pansy Parkinson, their hoped-for daughter-in-law. Maybe Draco would have a slice, too, and count his losses. He and Pansy would marry and have a single snotty towheaded child with Pansy’s big, ugly face who would be sorted into Slytherin house and the Malfoy family would continue as they had done for generations. 

Hermione didn’t want to end up a blancmange so there was really no point straying down that path.

‘Whazzamatta, ‘Mione?’ Ron yawned, woken by the shakes of her laughter.

‘Funny film,’ she said.

Ron squinted sleepily at the screen. ‘Little girl just fell off the horse?’ He shook his head then settled back into a deep sleep.

But there was no reason she and Draco couldn’t be friends, she reasoned with herself. She should be happy about him finding love with Pansy, as Draco was surely happy for her and Ron. Well, she actually doubted he would ever be happy _for_ Ron, but he was probably happy she was happy.

The next day, she made an effort.

‘Did you have a nice time at “Phoenix”?’ Hermione asked, her voice a little higher-pitched than it should have been.

‘Oh – er, yes, thank you,’ he said, confusion flitting over his features for a second before clearing. ‘Potter must have told you.’

‘Ginny, actually. She says it was the best food she’d ever eaten and never to repeat those words to her mother,’ Hermione said with a small laugh. And then, because she’d made herself promise to be grownup and gracious she added: ‘How are things with you and Pansy?’

‘Alright,’ he said, his expression neutral. Surely, if it were true love, he wouldn’t look so dispassionate.

‘She’s a-’ Hermione fought in vain to find a compliment to fit Pansy – nice person? Smart? Pretty? Funny? Kind? Decent? They were all lies. ‘- pureblood, just like you,’ Hermione finished lamely.

Draco chuckled under his breath. ‘That she is.’

‘Your parents must be thrilled.’

‘They’re not overly keen, but she fits the minimum requirements for the position of a Malfoy girlfriend so they won’t grumble openly.’

‘Girlfriend?’ Hermione echoed. Her face was frozen in a smile she knew must look horribly fake.

‘Well, technically I haven’t asked her, but that’s pretty much where we’re heading. I suppose it’s only fair on her seeing how-’ he cut himself short, blushing furiously.

 _Seeing as how you’re fucking,_ Hermione surmised. Of course they were. She hoped that it was thoroughly mediocre sex but then chided herself for it; she should only be wishing good things for her friend. Besides, she remembered how Pansy looked at Draco in school – like she was starving and he was a banquet – maybe if someone wanted something that much for that long, they should get it.

‘Things are going well for me and Ron, too,’ Hermione said. Perhaps it was childish, but she couldn’t help but hope for a reaction from Draco. He gave away nothing.

Draco’d been quieter than usual. Though they still sometimes sat together for lunch, he often made excuses, saying he had to do something or be somewhere. With growing uneasiness, Hermione wondered if this was the sort of thing she should be telling Kingsley. Well, he would know through Neville, anyway.

‘Where does he go?’ she couldn’t help but ask Neville, feeling like a dirty spy herself.

‘Mostly he sits by himself and reads,’ Neville told her. ‘It looks like the same book but I can’t get close enough to read the title. Sometimes he goes to Borgin and Burkes or Hathels – you know, the Dark bookshop in Knockturn Alley.’

Hermione nodded.

‘This book he reads – is it a big red one?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I think it’s “The Book of Books”. He’s been at that one for a while.’

Neville thanked her for the tip before heading back to work. Hermione felt sick – maybe she shouldn’t have told Neville. What business was it of his what literature Draco perused?

_But he might be up to something Dark!_

After lunch, Draco wasn’t with her; Protheroe, in his infinite wisdom, had decided he was needed somewhere else. Hermione smothered her disappointment – even though their relationship was a bit strained at the moment, she still missed Draco’s presence.

Protheroe was even more annoying than usual that afternoon, bustling about the place with his doxy cufflinks and pixie coffee mug.

‘Not right, not right at all!’ Protheroe blustered, charging into the office for the third time. He turned to Hermione. ‘You have to go to St Mungo’s. A couple of house elves have been admitted with very serious injuries and they’re being classed as _low-priority patients!_ ’ 

Anger flared up in Hermione’s chest. ‘Just because they’re elves.’

‘Exactly!’ Protheroe roared, thumping his fist on the table. ‘Go – make sure they are properly represented! Those elves deserve a fighting chance!’

Hermione disapparated at once and was horrified to find the two broken little bodies shoved to one side in a busy corridor. One of the elves was completely unconscious and the other one was making strangled noises.

‘These elves are very ill,’ Hermione told the head of the ward urgently. ‘I’m not a Healer but you can’t tell me that they are low priority.’

The Healer gave her a long-suffering look. He was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a few days worth of stubble and the air of being cruelly overworked. ‘Miss Granger, this is a _human_ hospital where our priority is to treat people. We’ll have a look at the elves when we can – after, and only after, we have seen to the sick _people_ in our care.’ 

Hermione didn’t care for the Healers condescending tone or the heavy emphasis he put on the words ‘people’ and ‘human’.

‘They are people,’ Hermione said, struggling to remain composed. ‘Not human, but certainly people. And you have Healers seeing to people with Hiccoughing Hexes and Jumping Jinxes out there. Treating them before dying elves is unacceptable.’

The Healer narrowed his eyes at Hermione and leant back in his chair. He was clearly not a man who was used to taking orders, nor did he much enjoy it.

‘I speak on behalf of the Ministry,’ Hermione finished coolly. ‘See to the elves. Now.’

The Healer stood up and marched past her; he gave quiet orders to another Healer, a middle-aged witch with dark blond hair pulled into a tight bun. Hermione distinctly heard her groan ‘bloody extremist’ but didn’t give a fig. As long as the elves got their treatment, she didn’t mind what they called her.

Hermione waited next to the elves to make sure they got seen to. She didn’t trust the head of the ward not to let them fester here if she left.

The conscious elf twitched and took a long, agonised gasp.

‘Miss Ella!’ she whimpered. ‘Where is Miss Ella?’

‘Their employer?’ Hermione guessed, her eyes on the trainee healer who’d been sent over to help. He wasn’t nearly as efficient as Padma and Hermione saw him stumble over the dressing.

‘The old woman was brought in with them,’ the Healer said, his mouth set in a hard line. Clearly he didn’t relish being on elf duty. ‘She needed a Calming Potion but she’s okay.’

‘So nice of you to tell them that!’ Hermione said sarcastically. The little elf visibly relaxed and sank down into her pillow. Hermione wondered, not for the first time, how many generations it would take for the slavish devotion to leave them. 

She was shaking by the time she got back to the Ministry, so focused on this fresh injustice that she stormed straight into Draco.

‘Careful!’ he reproached as the papers he was carrying went flying.

‘Sorry!’ she snapped. How could paper matter at a time like this?

He gave her a cold look as he stooped to pick them up.

There!

He put his bag on the floor as he bent down to pick up the papers. It was open, ‘The Book of Books’ winking out the side at her.

It was a madness Hermione wouldn’t usually have stooped to but she was so distraught after her trip to St Mungo’s that she simply had to do something. It didn’t even make sense, but she pointed her wand discreetly at Draco.

 _Confundo!_ She whispered in her head.

It bought her just a couple of seconds, long enough to take the book. 

She glanced around her; nobody had noticed a thing.

Once she’d locked herself in the toilet and her heart had stopped beating so fast she realised it was stupid. Yet here she was with the book in her hands. It seemed like a waste not to have a little look now.

She flipped through the pages hurriedly, the titles of terrible books jumping out at her, some of which she recognised from researching Horcruxes. Then, one chapter made her stop. This chapter was annotated, covered in lines with small, rushed words inked in the margin. It wasn’t as careful as usual but it was unmistakably Draco’s handwriting.

Hermione scanned it, meditating on why Draco had such a fascination with this part of the book.

_**Le Veritable Dragon Rouge** _

_Also known as the Grand Grimoire, Le Veritable Dragon Rouge was first discovered in the tomb of Solomon in 1750, purportedly placed under his throne to tempt him. While the book was briefly in the possession of Muggles, the International Confederation of Wizards decided that allowing such a dangerous object to remain in non-magical hands was morally negligent. While the Muggle community believe they still hold a copy of the Grimoire in the Vatican, the true book resides in the Wizarding world, changing its location every five years. In 1961, it was rumoured to be at the Tibetan Ministry of Magic, but these rumours remained unfounded. Had the book been there, it would almost certainly have been moved to a different secret location immediately for security purposes._

_Very little is known about the contents of the Grimoire for certain, but its alleged use is to make contact with the dead and broker deals with demons. It is unknown if any individual has successfully completed these spells but there are numerous unconfirmed legends throughout the ages. The most recent was that of a Norwegian wizard named Jonas Karlsen who in 1946 claimed to have successfully brought a demon into our world using this book. The Norwegian Ministry deny having had the book at this time and, if they had, Mr Karlsen certainly would not have been allowed access to it as he was a merely a member of the Floo Networking team. Lyjmede Hospital, the most renowned Magical Hospital in Scandinavia, confirmed that Mr Karlsen had been suffering from severe mental trauma after a duel with a neighbour and was not in his right state of mind._

There were more cases, all of which were proven to be lies or delusions. She skimmed through what Draco had underlined and read what he’d scribbled in the margins.

_…impervious to fire…_  
…thought to be one of the earliest books written…  
…it has a great pull on people’s affection… 

Next to this, Draco had written:

_Maybe why Nott didn’t seem to want to let it go?_

Hermione slammed the book shut, wishing she could unread Draco’s confession.

It sounded like Draco had got this Grimoire from Nott. If this was the book which had been stolen from the Ministry and it turned out that Draco had it…

Hermione stood up too quickly, making herself dizzy; she clutched the side of the cubicle, gasping. She’d been duped by Draco Malfoy, slickest con artist known to Wizardkind. He’d befriended her to fool people into thinking he’d reformed but deep down he was still a Dark wizard.

If this was the book.

Making her mind up, Hermione made her way to level one and knocked decisively on Kingsley’s door.

‘Come in,’ Kingsley said, looking up and smiling when he saw Hermione. ‘What can I do for you, Hermione?’

Hermione took a deep breath and steeled herself. ‘The book that was stolen from the Department of Mysteries? Was it called “Le Veritable Dragon Rouge”?’

Kingsley put down his quill, his whole attention on Hermione.

* * *

‘You did the right thing,’ Ron told Hermione firmly, rubbing her back.

‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ Hermione said hoarsely. The second she had left Kingsley’s office, she’d started to have doubts.

‘That’s because you’re a good person,’ Ron said. ‘You can even empathise with Malfoy! But believe me, he doesn’t deserve it. Now they’ve finally got something they can throw him in Azkaban for!’

Hermione didn’t like the satisfaction in his voice.

‘What if there’s another explanation?’ Hermione asked. ‘Maybe I should have talked to him.’

‘Are you mad?’ Ron said. ‘That would have just given him time to hide the evidence. And he might have cursed you for discovering his secret!’

He wouldn’t have cursed her, Hermione knew that with absolute certainty.

Ron tried to change the subject, keep her mind off things, but Hermione didn’t hear another word he said. She was too busy apologising profusely to Draco in her mind, begging him to forgive her.


	17. Chapter 17

The tree in the Malfoy Manor always went up late, never until a fortnight before Christmas – Narcissa was a strong adherent to the belief that there was such a thing as ‘too much Christmas’ – but for the brief time it was there, it was always spectacular, covered in real snow and brushing the top of the thirty foot ceiling.

‘It looks amazing, Mother,’ Draco told her.

She smiled at him. ‘It always does.’

She’d been planning to spend a couple of days with some Black cousins for Christmas festivities, and had been rather disappointed that Lucius had refused to accompany her.

‘He’s embarrassed,’ Draco said quietly.

‘I know,’ Narcissa said. ‘I hate to leave him alone here but I haven’t seen Tethys and Aquila for such a long time and they really did beg me. You won’t leave him on his own too long?’ she asked Draco anxiously.

‘I’ll keep him company,’ he promised.

He kept his promise. His father usually haunted the libraries in the evenings, settling into a straight-backed chair in front of the roaring fire to read a history book. Trying to be nonchalant, Draco would sit nearby, trying to engage him in conversation now and again. Lucius’ steely grey eyes would flit up from the page whenever Draco did and respond tersely.

‘It’s quite interesting there at times,’ Draco said when Lucius had reluctantly asked how things were going at the Ministry. ‘They’ve sent Hermione and me out into the field a couple of times – there was a rabid crup that had somehow been smuggled in from abroad and we had to trap him. It was a nice change of pace.’

‘That Granger girl – you mention her a lot,’ Lucius observed, a dangerous tension in his voice.

‘Well, we do work together,’ Draco said. ‘If I’m going to say something about work, there’s a good chance she’ll have been there.’

Lucius closed his book and set it aside on a table, steepling his fingers.

‘Don’t play the fool, Draco, it’s very unbecoming,’ he said.

Draco stayed quiet, wondering where his father was going to go with this.

‘I’m not an unperceptive man, and it’s to be expected that I pay especially close attention to my only son and heir,’ Lucius said. The fire crackling beside him seemed to be burning more quietly, filling the room with an awkward silence.

‘Of course,’ Draco said, as something needed to be said. He wished he had chosen to talk about something other than work. He should have spoken about The Black Serpent and how Pansy and Daphne were dancing together. Lucius would have liked to hear about that.

‘You’re attracted to the Mudblood,’ Lucius said. ‘Don’t insult me by denying it,’ he added as Draco grappled to find a rebuttal. ‘I raised you, I know you.’

Draco’s heart thundered in his chest. Was this it? Would he be thrown out in the snow and told never to darken Lucius’ doorstep again, blasted off the Malfoy family tree and left penniless? Draco didn’t think he’d be much good at poverty. 

‘Credit me with some understanding of how a young man’s mind works,’ Lucius said. ‘I was your age once – it feels like last week, you’ll see that one day.’

Shaking off his nostalgia, Lucius leaned forward, looking as serious as Draco had ever seen him. Mortified but curious, Draco listened to what he had to say.

‘It’s never mentioned in polite company, of course, especially not in front of fanatics like the Rosiers or the Lestranges, but Muggles do not appear visibly different from wizards.’ He said this with a rather pained expression. ‘They are inferior, certainly, but that does not stop some of them from being quite beautiful – inconvenient as that is for those of us who wish to remain true to our own kind. What’s important to remember, is that the mind and the body are two very different things.’

Draco nodded slowly, not really understanding where the conversation was heading.

‘When I was only a little younger than you are now, I found myself in a somewhat similar predicament. I never told you this before as I didn’t believe there was any need – you and Pansy seemed so close that I assumed it was only a matter of time before you wed – I had hoped you would avoid having a dirty little secret such as my own.

‘When I was seventeen, I found time very heavy on my hands. It was the summer before my final year at school; I had just joined the Death Eaters, but it was not nearly as time-consuming as it later became. Idle thumbs being the devil’s handy work, my attention was captured by a Muggle female of my own age.’

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He would have expected his father to admit to being a clown in the circus before confessing to a romantic entanglement with a Muggle.

‘It was a very confusing time for me. I had been taught that Muggles were little more than animals, barely human with regard to their intelligence. It took me a while to realise than my feelings were not at all at odds with the values I had learnt. My reaction to the girl was merely physical. After all, being pureblood doesn’t exempt us from baser human needs.’

‘I decided, rather than wallow in shame which would certainly drive me mad and possibly even fan my desire, to simply indulge. Our affair ran its course and I grew bored with her – she had nothing to offer other than a pretty face and a firm body.’

The heat in Draco’s face must surely have turned him scarlet. This was by far the most awkward lecture his father had ever given him. Besides, this was, in a weird and twisted way, bordering on a sex talk, something which probably should have happened some years back. Draco thought this was definitely a case where never was better than late.

‘We don’t need to have this conversation,’ Draco said.

‘Oh, I think we do,’ Lucius said. ‘You’re still young enough to confuse lust with true love.’

‘Right,’ Draco said slowly. Despite heartily praying for a speedy end to this conversation, he couldn’t help but wonder about the girl.

‘What was her name?’ Draco asked.

‘It’s unimportant,’ Lucius snapped. ‘She was a vessel for my urges.’

Draco shuddered, wishing he could erase the phrase ‘vessel for my urges’ from his brain.

Just when Draco thought that was all his father had to stay and was ready to leave the library before any more horrifying confessions poured from his lips, Lucius spoke quietly.

‘May. Her name was May.’

Draco hesitated on the threshold, trying to phrase the follow up question.

‘Did you – I mean, how – did you slip her a love potion or imperio her – or –‘ Draco started, his throat strangling the words.

Lucius gave him a very hard, very long look. ‘No, I didn’t _rape_ her, which is what you’re obviously trying to ask. I hardly needed to: I was the rich, handsome, charming young heir to the manor. Muggles have fairly simple tastes, I assure you.’

The Malfoys hardly ever went to the village but it was inevitable that they should sometimes bump into the local people – most of them avoided eye contact with ‘that right creepy family in the big house’ – and Draco found himself trying to remember the women he had seen who were around his father’s age, wondering which one she was.

‘Does she still live around here?’ Draco asked.

Lucius sneered, pressing his hands down hard on the tops of his thighs. ‘Not likely. Word was that she killed herself. Silly girl – I told her from the start I could never marry. She shouldn’t have got so upset when things ended.’

Draco studied his father’s eyes. If there was remorse there, it was buried deep. Not wanting to think that his father was a monster, he chose to believe Lucius had an excellent poker face.

Only when he was climbing the stairs did Draco realise that, in a bizarre, convoluted way, he’d just had his father’s blessing to pursue a relationship with Hermione, providing he didn’t marry her in the end.

That night, at one forty six in the morning, Aurors banged on the door with a warrant for the arrest of Draco Lucius Malfoy.


	18. Chapter 18

‘Hermione, what’s wrong?’ Ginny asked, frowning.

‘Nothing!’

‘You just said the lime green bridesmaid’s dress was nice,’ Ginny said. ‘Clearly something’s wrong.’

Hermione looked at the dress properly. It was revolting. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being a terrible maid-of-honour.’

‘Well, yes, but why?’ Ginny said. She put down the tiara she was examining and put her hand on Hermione’s shoulder. ‘This stuff can wait.’

They were in Madam Malkin’s shop. Luna, the only other bridesmaid, had already wandered off in search of Nargles, and Molly and Fleur were at the back of the shop, comparing hats.

‘Are you still feeling bad about Malfoy?’ Ginny asked quietly. Unlike her brother, Ginny had not immediately stamped Draco as guilty, something for which Hermione was hugely grateful. ‘He’s still just in custody. They won’t find him guilty if he’s not – they won’t send him to Azkaban.’

‘I wish I had your faith,’ Hermione said. The way the Ministry was run had seen a marked improvement since Kingsley had taken over but nothing was perfect – and Hermione couldn’t help but nurse her old apprehension of bureaucracy. 

Molly was rushing over to them, clutching two enormous hats; Hermione straightened up and adopted a happier demeanour.

‘What do you think of these, Ginny dear?’ Molly asked excitedly. ‘Which one should I wear?’

‘Mum, you can wear whatever you like,’ Ginny sighed, probably for the umpteenth time.

‘But it’s _your_ wedding,’ Molly said fondly. ‘Everything has to be how you want it!’

Fleur sashayed over, a dainty fascinator on her silvery hair. ‘I ‘ave made my selection!’ she declared, giving a little twirl.

‘It’s lovely, dear,’ Molly said.

‘Of course, zere eez no point choosing my dress yet,’ Fleur said. ‘I will be much smaller by zee summer!’ she said with the complacency of a woman who knew her body would ping back into shape no matter how many babies she had.

‘Of course,’ Ginny said sardonically.

Fleur and Molly ambled off again, this time to decide which shoes they should wear.

‘This blue will look nice on you, Ginny said thoughtfully, holding a shimmering Capri silk up against Hermione’s skin. ‘And it’ll bring out Luna’s eyes, too. What do you think?’

Hermione let the fabric flow through her fingers, cool as water. Draco Malfoy was sitting in a cell in Level Ten, possibly awaiting Azkaban, and she was thinking about a dress.

‘Go and see him,’ Ginny said. ‘If you feel this bad, go and see him.’

* * *

There were twelve cells on the tenth level, and a dingy visitors’ room with a table and two flimsy chairs. Hermione waited on one of the chairs, jiggling her leg, while the massive wizard in charge of the cells fetched Draco.

His own clothes must have been confiscated, as Hermione was sure he would never own such threadbare greying robes as he was wearing now. He seemed well though, if a little shaken.

‘How are you?’ Hermione asked at once. ‘Sorry, stupid question.’

‘Holding up,’ Draco answered anyway. He leant forward, his elbows on the table. Then, slowly, as though afraid of how she might react, he reached his hands forward so that their fingertips were touching. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’ The solemnity in his eyes was unbearable.

Hermione wanted to hug him. She wished the hulking wizard standing near the wall, watching everything they said, would turn around. The man’s wand was visible at his side like a gun in a holster; it was big and crooked, looking better suited to smacking people than casting spells with.

Draco’s eyes followed Hermione’s gaze.

‘They took my wand,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s to be expected – but I hate being without it, I feel so helpless. I know everyone does. But it just reminds me of the war. After Potter took my wand and we let you escape, I really thought the Dark Lord was going to murder us.’ He gave a shaky little laugh. ‘Having my wand wouldn’t have helped if that was the plan, but I wanted it all the same. Potter gave it back to me afterwards, but it wasn’t the same.’ He shrugged.

‘Its allegiance had changed,’ Hermione said.

‘I resented it,’ Draco said. ‘As stupid as that sounds, I was angry with my wand for working so well for Potter. I got another one in the end, spruce and unicorn hair. It’s a good wand, but I miss using my hawthorn sometimes.’

Hermione moved her hand, tracing his finger joints, knuckles, the tiny transparent hairs on the back of his hand.

‘I’m frightened,’ Draco whispered. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong but I’m frightened.’

She wished she could have time alone with him to ask him about the book. If only she had her wand, she could have used _muffliato_ on the guard, but she hadn’t been allowed to take it in.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Hermione said with a sureness she didn’t feel. ‘The trial will find out the truth.’ She was touching the underside of his wrist, the flutter of his pulse on her fingertips.

Draco nodded, but looked unconvinced. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Dress shopping was supposed to be today, wasn’t it?’

Hermione wondered how he could be thinking about her life when his was circling the pan. Still, she told him little stories if a distraction was what he needed – she told him about Luna wanting to wear a poncho and imitated Fleur’s tactless remarks.

‘Never try and do a French accent again,’ Draco told her.

‘My parents wanted me to be fluent,’ Hermione said, suddenly remembering. ‘My mum spent a year in Nantes before University. She wanted me to do something like that. Spend a year in another country. She was so disappointed when I told her they didn’t do foreign languages at Hogwarts.’

Draco smiled thoughtfully. ‘So that’s the sort of things Muggles do at school. I always wondered.’

Too soon, the guard was gruffly telling Hermione that her time was up. She gave him a cold look and allowed herself to be escorted out.

* * *

‘I need to talk to him alone,’ Hermione told Ginny. ‘He has something to tell me, I can see it.’

Harry and Ron were both working late and Ginny had come over for tea and biscuits. She was sitting cross-legged, elbows on her knees and looking at Hermione with great intensity.

‘But how could you help?’ Ginny asked. ‘If he’s done something wrong, you can’t change it – and if he hasn’t done something wrong, he can tell the Ministry the truth.’

‘I know, I know,’ Hermione groaned. ‘But I just have this gut feeling that there’s more to it than that. He’s a good man, I’m absolutely certain of that. But I’m worried he’s done something – inadvisable.’ 

Ginny opened her mouth slowly, searching for words. ‘Are you sure you’re not getting too involved in this?’

‘Draco and I are friends now,’ Hermione said.

‘And that’s a good thing. He needs the right sort of friends if he wants to move away from his Death Eater background. But are you sure that’s all there is. You’re my friend and I want what’s best for you – but I also want what’s best for my brother…’

Hermione felt her colour rising. ‘What are you saying? You think I’d cheat on Ron? You think I’d do that?’ She sounded so offended, so pious.

‘No,’ Ginny said. ‘Not physically, not with your actions. But you might want to pay attention to how you _feel_ – you can’t control your emotions, but you can limit the time you spend with Malfoy if you think it could be dangerous – don’t put yourself in a situation where it’s too late to back out.’

Hermione could never admit that Ginny had a point. She was Ron’s sister in the end and she could never know that she did harbour romantic feelings for Draco. What she could do was promise herself to follow Ginny’s advice. She’d been thinking about moving departments for a while – the House Elf Law she’d advocated so passionately had been passed and she’d had an offer from the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. The thought of cutting Draco out of her life wrenched a hole in her chest, but it was the only wise thing to do. Just as soon as she made sure he was safely out of jail, she’d take steps to ensure they hardly ever saw each other.

‘I love Ron,’ Hermione told Ginny. ‘And I’ll never hurt him.’

Ginny gave a quick nod of understanding. ‘You know I’m not telling you to let Malfoy rot, right? I mean, I don’t really think you should interfere, but if you’re convinced there’s something he needs to tell you, there are ways to see him alone.’

‘The only person who’s allowed to be alone with him is that guard,’ Hermione argued. 

Ginny’s eyebrow quirked up. ‘Exactly.’

* * *

The guard's robes were loose on him, giving plenty of room for his impressive size. Hermione navigated this strange, unwieldy body towards the lift, miscalculating her balance and knocking someone over.

‘Sorry,’ Hermione said, her voice gruff and booming.

This must be why Hagrid was so clumsy, Hermione thought. These enormous arms were a nightmare!

Draco was in his little room, reading a novel he’d been so magnanimously allowed to keep. He looked up when he heard Hermione’s sizeable feet thumping up the corridor and speared her with a sneer of icy contempt.

‘It’s me,’ Hermione said quickly. ‘It’s Hermione!’

Draco bolted up straight. ‘What?’

‘Polyjuice. Stunning spell. The real guard’s tied up in a cupboard,’ Hermione said quickly, sitting down in a chair opposite Draco; it groaned unexpectedly under her weight.

‘WHAT!?’ Draco went white. ‘Are you mad? If they find the body – if they know you’re talking to me unsupervised – it could jeopardise the whole trial.’

‘You need to tell me something,’ Hermione said, cutting to the chase. ‘I can help you, I know I can.’

Draco let out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan. ‘I’m not sure you’ll even understand. I wanted to tell you in beginning but-’

‘Time is of the essence,’ Hermione reminded him.

‘Okay. I do have the book. The Grimoire,’ Draco said. ‘And it is hidden in the manor.’

Hermione buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, shit!’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Draco muttered. ‘It’s well-hidden, but it’s only a matter of time before the Ministry get it. Nott begged me to hide it for him – this was before anything was reported stolen from the Ministry. And you know that I have nothing to do with the attacks, don’t you?’ Draco asked Hermione earnestly.

‘I always have,’ Hermione said.

‘I doubt Nott did either,’ Draco said. ‘I have no proof, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I think whoever _did_ plan those attacks is the one who put Nott in the hospital.’

‘Tell them this at the trial,’ Hermione said. ‘Tell them you didn’t know what the book was when you agreed to keep it safe.’

Draco shook his head. ‘They’ll never believe me. You’ve seen how people here at the Ministry look at me!’

Hermione closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. ‘Maybe if I try and get the book back.’

‘Even if you could get into the manor, which I highly doubt, it’s not worth the risk. If the Ministry find you with the book, you’ll be in just as much trouble as I am.’ He gave a painful smile. ‘But you do believe me that I’m not guilty?’

‘Yes,’ Hermione said with as much emphasis as she could. ‘I believe you.’


	19. Chapter 19

Draco had always suffered from a slight claustrophobia. Perhaps it had something to do with growing up in such a big house; he’d always had enough room to spread himself out.

At least he had visitors to keep his mind off it. It was reassuring to realise how many people didn’t want him carted off to Azkaban.

His mother came every day, accompanied once by his father.

‘Lucius finds it difficult to come here,’ Narcissa told him when she was on her own.

‘I appreciate that,’ Draco said. ‘I’m glad he came at all.’

Narcissa had dark circles under her eyes but otherwise looked as perfect as ever; she liked to stress the importance of not ‘letting them get to us’. ‘They’ could never win.

‘I brought you some more books,’ Narcissa said, sliding them across the table. ‘They were thoroughly checked before I was allowed in in case I was trying to smuggle you a nail file.’ She shot the guard a look which left no doubt whatsoever as to her feelings on this matter. ‘I wish I could bring more things.’ She rustled the fabric of his sleeve between her fingers and wrinkled her nose.

Pansy had been to visit him once, dressed as though she were in mourning. Her furious tears gave him a headache and he was in no mood to argue who was missing whom the most or listen to her barely-hushed descriptions of what she would do to him once he got out.

Hermione had visited three times – the third was brief, only saying that she’d been sitting with some ‘interesting people’ at lunchtime, which he took to mean she was trying to pump the Mystery Personnel for information. She handed a thick envelope.

‘It’s a Christmas present,’ she said. ‘I hope security didn’t damage it during inspection.’

Draco took it – it smelled like her.

‘I’d have got you something,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been somewhat indisposed.’

‘What, no gift shops up here,’ Hermione teased. ‘You should complain.’ She nodded at the envelope. ‘It’s only something little. I hoped it would cheer you up.’

The guard came to get Draco again half an hour after Hermione had left.

‘You’re bloody popular,’ he grumbled.

Miss Ella Nott was sitting in the visitors’ room, looking absurdly small and fragile in such close proximity to the guard.

‘I heard what happened through Liza Parkinson,’ Miss Nott said apologetically.

‘I’m sure the Ministry’s been letting everyone know – they got such flak for not sticking any Malfoys in jail after the war,’ Draco said, trying to sound light hearted. 

Miss Nott’s trembling hand clutched at Draco’s. ‘They’re making a scapegoat of you. When I heard I knew immediately that they had the wrong man. And you were so kind in coming to see me the other week that I felt I had to return the favour.’

‘You really shouldn’t have,’ Draco said. ‘You should be safe at home.’

Miss Nott shook her head wearily. ‘My home’s not so safe anymore. We were broken into – poor Itsy and Bitsy are still in hospital.’

‘Did the Ministry catch who did it?’ Draco asked, incensed.

‘No. Nothing was taken, so they don’t see the point in pursuing the matter. Theo’s room was turned upside down but nothing’s missing that I know of. And they don’t care one bit about my poor elves,’ she added fiercely. ‘I was too nervous to go back to the house afterwards so I’m staying with my cousin’s daughter here in London. She hates having me there but no doubt hopes there’ll be something for her in my will if she accommodating. And at least I’m closer to Theo.’

‘How is he?’ Draco asked. ‘Are they closer to discovering a cure?’

‘No closer than they were at the start,’ Miss Nott said sadly. ‘And – and he’s barely recognisable. He pulled all his teeth out, one by one.’

‘Merlin,’ Draco couldn’t help but say.

When Draco didn’t have visitors, time was an anvil. He wished there was a window, a real one that let in breeze and sunlight – but even those picture windows the Ministry had would be better than nothing. 

He had a panic attack when he realised that he had been underground for over a week. What if he never got out? What if he was sent to Azkaban? All those times he had walked down the street, breathing fresh air, and he had never stopped to appreciate it. He might never again see the manor in all its glory. He might never marry, never start a family. These terrible, needle-sharp ‘mights’ swarmed around Draco. 

Unable to breathe, he started throwing the few things in the room with him around, slamming books against the wall, the cup of water by his bed, his shoes, anything he could grab hold of, and finally his fist when he had nothing left to reach for.

‘If you think you’ll be left out to fix that, you’re mistaken,’ the guard snarled.

Draco span around; he hadn’t realised he was being watched.

‘It’ll have to stay broken,’ the guard said, then turned his back on Draco.

Too slowly, Draco realised he’d heard a crunch, and it had come from his hand – he looked down at it, bloody and shaking. It didn’t feel like his hand, it felt like an alien limb.

Draco soon regretted his outburst when his hand throbbed in agony, keeping him up all night. It was a dark, rippling pain which chased its way along his body whenever his hand moved the smallest amount.

‘You’ll have to send for a Healer,’ Draco told the guard.

‘Not bloody likely.’

‘The bone needs to be set, at least,’ Draco tried to reason – he wanted to bellow and rage but was only too aware that this man was his only link to the outside world. ‘It’ll ruin my hand otherwise.’

‘Should have thought of that before you had that little tantrum, shouldn’t you,’ the guard said; there was an undeniable streak of enjoyment in his voice. 

Draco sank down onto the floor, closing his eyes, giving up. Like as not, he’d never need to use his right hand again. ‘How many days until my trial?’ he asked softly.

‘Three.’

At some point, Draco must have fallen asleep because he woke up. It was another half and hour before he realised it was Christmas Day.

When he was little, he was always up at the crack of dawn. Never before. The rule was he couldn’t get out of bed until it was light so he would sit upright, staring at the horizon out the window until he was sure it was getting brighter. He would gallop to his parents’ room and dive between them, ignoring their groans. 

His mother had only been allowed to give him a card this year, which he now struggled to open with only his left hand in use. It was magnolia with gilt edges, a picture of a golden, snowy forest swaying on the front cover. Inside simply read:

_To our Darling Son,_

_Stay Strong,_

_Love Mother and Father_

Miss Nott had given him a card with a picture of a Christmas Pudding on the front, and Pansy’s card had a rather explicit greeting inside accompanied by a naughty doodle.

He opened Hermione’s card last, wanting to savour it.

_Dear Draco,_

_Next Christmas will be a happier one. For now, I hope this makes you smile,_

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

It was only an expression but Draco wished it were true. He wished she was his and he was hers and they were opening presents underneath their very own tree.

The envelope was filled with bits of coloured paper that Draco had only just spotted when they flew out, enchanted. White, intricately cut snowflakes swirled around the room like his cell was a snow globe, and a red and brown robin fluttered in the air, singing prettily. Green card rearranged itself into a miniature origami Christmas pine, rotating gently in the middle of the room.

Draco caught one of the paper snowflakes from the air. Freezing, it soothed him.


	20. Chapter 20

‘The Wizengamot calls on Mr Horus Qabbilar as witness,’ the head of the Wizengamot said; his voice was cold, impersonal, distant.

It was 27th December, the day of the trial. The courtroom was half full; Hermione was enraged to see how many people appeared to be enjoying themselves, on the edge of their seat like they were watching a soap opera. She herself sat about halfway back, close enough to see Draco properly but without drawing too much attention to herself; he was in one of those loathsome chained chairs, looking thinner and paler than she’d ever seen him – being held captive was getting to him.

Horus took to the stand, looking ill at ease, his normally playful demeanour sobered by the court.

‘How long have you worked for the Department of Mysteries, Mr Qabbilar,’ Nathaniel Fairfield asked, striding out to address Horus.

Hermione clenched her fists in her lap; Fairfield was known to be a ruthless interrogator with a penchant for playing on the emotions of the Wizengamot. 

Horus cleared his throat nervously before answering: ‘Four years.’

‘And where were you before that, Mr Qabbilar?’

‘I worked for the Egyptian Ministry for fifteen years, for the, well, I am not so sure about the translation, but it is our equivalent of the Department of Mysteries.’

Fairfield nodded. ‘An illustrious career. Clearly you have been in a position of trust for most if not all of your adult life.’

Horus’ eyes darted back and forth, unsure whether he was supposed to reply or not. After a few seconds of pregnant silence, Fairfield continued talking.

‘Would you kindly tell the court about the events of Friday the sixteenth of November as you recall them, Mr Qabbilar?’ Fairfield said.

‘Of course, of course,’ Horus said. ‘I had been working all day in the Department. Usually I leave work at about six or seven o’clock, but on this Friday I was working late with two of my colleagues – Chace Levinson and Roberta Platt – we had made some interesting discoveries.’ Horus stopped talking and twisted his hands nervously. 

‘Mr Qabbilar, the court is aware that work undertaken in the Department of Mysteries is top secret and you are not expected to divulge details pertaining to it.’

‘Yes, ah – yes,’ Horus said. ‘Levinson and Platt left shortly before I did – at around eight o’clock, I believe. But I could hear them talking for a while outside the door for maybe ten minutes afterwards. I don’t think it was work-related. They were laughing. I’m sorry, I don’t know if that’s important.’

‘Just tell us everything you remember, Mr Qabbilar,’ Fairfield said reassuringly. It was the first time Hermione had seen the wizard in action and she couldn’t help but take a strong dislike to the man. He had a ravenous glint in his eyes and she could swear she could see his nostrils widening, like a hound on the scent of a fox. She glanced over at Draco, who was studying Horus with wary confusion.

‘I left about, erm, about ten minutes after that,’ Horus was saying. ‘I was only packing up my things and organising everything. They are very strict when it comes to tidiness in our department, so I had to make sure…’ he trailed off again and his upper lip quirked nervously. ‘I tidied, yes. But when I left the room, I saw that one of the other doors was open a little bit. It was most unusual. At the time, I was thinking this, that it was most extraordinary. We are all so very careful, you see.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘We cannot be too careful.

‘I was about to close the door – and then I heard movement from inside. At first I was telling myself that it was maybe only another Unspeakable who was working late also. But whoever was inside was making too much noise. It sounded like they were searching for something, knocking things over and making a mess.’

‘Which room was this in?’ Fairfield asked.

‘I am not permitted to say.’

Fairfield bowed his head respectfully.

‘The man inside was angry. I could hear muttering and I knew it to be a man’s voice,’ Horus continued.

‘What did he say?’

‘Where – where is the fucking book,’ Horus said, his eyes dropping in embarrassment.

‘I see,’ Fairfield said, turning to the Wizengamot with a very smug look.

Draco kept looking at his right hand. Hermione couldn’t see properly but she thought there might be something wrong with it – whenever he repositioned it, a spasm of pain flitted over his face.

‘I went back into my own room,’ Horus said. ‘I did not know what to do. I am sorry now I didn’t contact Magical Law Enforcement, of course. I should have sent a memo or something like that. I waited until I heard footsteps and then I left.’

‘Did you see who had left the room?’ Fairfield questioned. 

‘Not his face,’ Horus apologised. ‘But I saw him walking away as I left.’

‘Could you describe the man from behind?’

Horus looked like a trapped rat, frightened and deeply unhappy. ‘I noticed the hair was fair to the point of being white and – and although I could not know the man’s exact height, he was tall and of a slight build.’

Fairfield nodded sagely and rubbed his chin. ‘Tall, slight and white-blond hair,’ Fairfield repeated. ‘Mr Malfoy, stand up, if you would,’ Fairfield said, turning to Draco.

The chains sprang away from Draco’s wrists at once, allowing him to stand up. His distinctive Malfoyness was on display for all the Wizengamot to see, his unmistakable hair colour. Even from behind, he was difficult to confuse with anyone else. 

‘Thank you, Mr Malfoy,’ Fairfield said, turning back to the court. Draco sat down and the chains ensnared him immediately. 

‘And you told your superior about this once it became apparent that something had been stolen?’ a reedy, ginger witch on the Wizengamot asked.

‘Of course.’

‘So why has it taken this long to arrest Mr Malfoy if you had such incriminating evidence from the start?’ the witch asked.

‘I – I cannot comment on how the Department of Mysteries is run. I can only say that we enjoy a greater freedom of self-governance than other Departments,’ Horus said carefully.

It was embarrassment, Hermione was sure. As a Department their notoriety for secrecy often meant they preferred to solve their own problems rather than involve the Ministry as a whole. If they had suspected Malfoy from the start, doubtlessly they would have been keen to get the book back on their own terms rather than rely on Magical Law Enforcement. It was probably only a grudging respect for Kingsley that had led to them informing Kingsley of a missing book in the first place.

Roberta Platt was called to the stand after Horus. Calm and collectedly, she backed up Horus’ story.

‘Chace and I stopped to talk to Mafalda in the Atrium,’ Roberta told Fairfield. ‘About quarter of an hour after we’d got out of the lift, it opened again and Malfoy got out.’

‘You saw his face?’ Fairfield asked.

‘Yes, it was definitely him,’ she said.

‘How far away were you from him?’ one of the Wizengamot asked, an older, dour-looking wizard with a neat moustache. 

‘Well,’ Roberta said slowly, tilting her head to one side as she considered. ‘Chace and I were by Mafalda’s desk and Malfoy got out of the far lift. What’s that, ninety feet, Mr Greene?’

‘And at that distance, you saw his face?’ Greene asked sceptically; Hermione felt a rush of gratitude towards him.

‘Well, I suppose not exactly,’ Roberta said. ‘But it was obviously him.’

Levinson and Hopkirk’s account of the evening tallied with Platt’s, although neither was as emphatic in their identification of Draco as their colleague had been. Hope fluttered tentatively in Hermione’s chest.

To Hermione’s surprise, Neville was called to the stand and asked to relay details of Draco’s involvement in helping fight off the Dementors.

‘I got to Thackerey Square at around ten to seven – Ron and Hermione were already there,’ Neville told Fairfield. ‘I’d been walking through Thackerey Park when I heard the screams. Malfoy turned up a minute or so later and he helped us fend the Dementors off.’

‘Mr Malfoy cast a Patronus charm?’ Fairfield asked, eyebrows sky high.

‘Yes.’

‘Unusual, given his history,’ Fairfield mused aloud. A hiss of disapproval rustled through the Wizengamot and Draco glowered at Fairfield – with good reason. Fairfield had obliquely reminded the court of Draco’s Death Eater history, something he wasn’t allowed to directly reference. 

Neville continued, unperturbed. ‘It was not a particularly strong Patronus, but it did the job. Hermione went to get back up from the Ministry. With the extra wands, it took us forty-five minutes or so to capture the Dementors and transport them to a secure location.’

‘And Mr Malfoy was with you the entire time.’

‘No, he had already left. I don’t know when exactly because I wasn’t paying him that much attention. He was definitely around for the first ten minutes, but I can’t recall seeing his dragon Patronus after that.’

‘A dragon Patronus,’ Fairfield echoed. ‘Interesting that it was a dragon that attacked Tunbridge the week before.’

‘A tenuous link, Fairfield,’ Greene snapped. ‘Please refrain from defaming the defendant.’

‘Merely an observation,’ Fairfield said. To Neville: ‘How long have you known Mr Malfoy?’

‘Since our first year at Hogwarts.’

‘Would you say that you knew him well?’

‘Well,’ Neville said. ‘I think so. We had lots of classes together over the years. And we – interacted a lot.’

‘Would you say that running to the rescue of Muggles was in keeping with Mr Malfoy’s normal behaviour?’

‘Speculative!’ Greene barked.

The head of the Wizengamot looked quickly between Fairfield and Greene, his expression impassive. ‘Answer the question, Mr Longbottom.’

To Neville’s credit, he looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘I can’t say I’ve spent much time with him since school – and the war changed everyone. I really don’t feel it’s my place to answer that question.’

Hermione could have groaned. The fact that Fairfield had asked the question was enough to remind the court of the typical Malfoy attitude towards Muggles – and Neville’s answer had been unintentionally damning. Between the lines, clear as day, the fact that Neville did not think Malfoy’s behaviour typical was obvious.

Draco himself was the last to be questioned that day; the gruelling effects of the day had crumpled his shoulders and stolen much of his composure. It was painful for Hermione to watch.

‘You are a recent employee of the Ministry, is that correct, Mr Malfoy?’ Fairfield asked, spearing Draco with a cool, piercing look.

‘I started on the second of October,’ Draco said.

‘Just before the first attack,’ Fairfield said. ‘You’ve been biding your time for two years, haven’t you, and decided the time was ripe to worm your way into the Ministry and steal a precious item?’

‘That’s a lie. Besides, I wasn’t the only one to start on that day,’ Draco said. ‘The Ministry needed ten new employees.’

‘Of course, it might just be a coincidence,’ Fairfield said with an exaggerated shrug. ‘But there have been an awful lot of inconvenient coincidences.’ 

Before Draco could respond, Fairfield asked him to recount the events of the night of the Dementor attack.

‘I had just finished work when I heard the screams,’ Draco said. 

‘And you rushed to help? How considerate of you,’ Fairfield commented.

‘I’m not a monster,’ Draco said quietly. ‘I couldn’t let people suffer when I could do something.’

But Draco’s head was bowed, perhaps filled with memories of all the times he had let people suffer and all the times he had in fact caused that suffering himself. That was certainly the train of thought of many in the room. ‘I don’t pretend to be naturally brave, but I am trying. I’ve done everything I can to put my past behind me.’

‘Strange,’ Fairfield said. ‘You would think that someone so eager for a fresh start wouldn’t be spending so much time in Knockturn Alley.’

Draco grimaced. ‘Are you accusing me of doing anything illegal in Knockturn Alley?’

‘Not as yet,’ Fairfield said. ‘I’m merely trying to paint an accurate picture of your character for the benefit of the court.’

Draco’s left hand curled around the arm of his chair, turning the knuckles white. 

‘Why did you leave the square before any of the other Ministry officials?’ Fairfield asked. ‘If you really have had such a change of heart regarding the non-magical population, why didn’t you stay to make sure everyone was safe?’

‘Lots of people had already turned up to help,’ Draco muttered. ‘The situation was obviously in hand – and, well, I felt awkward.’

‘Awkward?’ Fairfield repeated with heavy sarcasm.

‘Things are a bit tense between me and a lot of the rest of the staff,’ Draco explained. ‘I understand why but it doesn’t make it any more pleasant.’

The court was the adjourned for a brief recess. Almost immediately, chatter broke out in the courtroom as the vultures in the audience chewed over the juicy details. Hermione sat silently, rage burning in her chest as the audience left.

Narcissa Malfoy walked briskly past, nose aloft. Hermione noted the cracks in her composure: a slight shake as though with suppressed rage, her gaze unnaturally fixed from avoiding eye contact. An unwise urge to offer the older woman some words of comfort gripped Hermione briefly.

Narcissa ignored Hermione completely, though Lucius did meet her eye briefly, his lip curling in disdain.

* * *  
The Wizengamot took a painfully long time to reach a verdict. Hermione wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not but she didn’t think she could take much more waiting.

Finally, the head of the Wizengamot stood up, his face as unreadable as granite.

‘After reviewing the evidence, the Wizengamot have decided on our verdict. As to the charge of breaking into restricted sections of the Ministry of Magic, we find Mr Malfoy guilty. As to the charge of theft of a dangerous and valuable object, we find Mr Malfoy guilty. And as to the charges of possession of this object, we find Mr Malfoy guilty.’


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few comments asking why Hermione wasn't in the trial and asking why Draco didn't tell the truth about Theo. I'm hoping this chapter clears this up!

One of the Wizengamot came to talk to Draco about the verdict. The sour old warlock sat across the table from him and tried to offer advice that Draco struggled to take in. The word ‘guilty’ kept echoing in his head, blocking out pretty much everything else.

‘You can appeal, of course,’ the man was saying. ‘I’m not sure you’ll have much luck with the breaking and entering charge or the theft charge, but seeing as they haven’t managed to find the book in your home we can argue against the charge of possession.’

Draco nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘And the sentence?’

‘It will be decided within the next few days. Most likely, it will be between five and ten years in Azkaban, a little less if you are successful with the appeal. But even in the best-case scenario, you would not serve less than three.

Draco scowled bitterly at the table. Up to ten years of his life could be stolen from him.

His hand still twinged. He had intended to ask the wizard in front of him to heal it but his obstinacy and pride stopped him; he didn’t want to ask anything of this man who relayed Draco’s plight with such indifference. Besides, the pain had subsided considerably and was almost bearable.

There was nothing to do for the next two days but sit and wait. He had no visitors; he’d been told they weren’t allowed now that he was officially guilty.

Draco wondered for the ten thousandth time whether he should have just admitted to holding the book and that it was Theo who’d given it to him. Theo would hardly have suffered from Draco dropping him in it – he was in no state to be moved from St Mungo’s. But, backed into a corner like this, Draco was too afraid of the implications of confessing he had the book.

Another thing plaguing him was the memory of the trial. He didn’t relish reliving that day but the only alternative his mind ever offered him was imaging his future, or what was left of it.

The trial could hardly have gone worse.

He’d wondered briefly if Hermione would be called to the stand – and what she would say if she was. Surely she would speak in his defence. Draco had seen her face clearly in the crowd, lips parted in horror as the whole charade unfolded, white with fear. That was one thing to hold on to, Draco supposed. He knew she cared deeply about what happened to him.

Quite possibly that was why she hadn’t been interrogated before the Wizengamot. Shacklebolt had known Hermione would speak well of Draco and he couldn’t have a spanner like that thrown in the works!

And ‘The Book of Books’!

Draco growled, pressing his forehead against the cool stone of the wall as he realised just how much the Ministry had it in for him. Which bloody bastard had swiped it he had no idea, but Fairfield had told the Wizengamot about ‘The Book of Books’, slowly, as though he were unveiling a particularly juicy dish. He’d told them all about the notes and underlinings he had made concerning ‘the stolen object’. But when Greene had asked to examine the book, he’d been refused on grounds that it would reveal too much about the nature of the object and by extension the nature of the work undertaken at the Department of Mysteries.

If the Wizengamot had seen the copy, they would have realised that it was Nott who’d given the book to Draco and Draco himself who had stolen it. And that made things all too messy and complicated. The Ministry needed a quick conviction to heighten their popularity.

When he could, Draco slept.

Despite all the horror of his waking hours, his dreams were still quiet and usually joyful. Mostly he dreamt he was back in Protheroe’s office, Hermione scribbling busily away opposite him, her scent of coconut and apple filling his head; he’d always been fond of apples, especially green ones. It must be her shampoo or the soap she used. Had she always smelled of apples? Was that why he liked them?

Unbidden, the dream shifted. He was in his bedroom, the door to his bathroom slightly ajar, a fragrant mist curling through, the hiss of the shower echoing.

Relishing the delicious illicitness of doing something he knew he shouldn’t, he crept forward. The lamps of the bathroom were lit, spilling warm yellow light onto the bedroom carpet. Barely perceptible over the cascade of hot water, Draco heard content humming.

He was near enough now to see through the chink in the door, to see the olive-skinned glistening body soaping itself up.

Draco lost his ability to breathe. 

Hermione tipped her head back, rinsing her thick hair, leaving her neck exposed. Stepping out of the stream of water to wring her hair, her body was a canvas of rivulets, brooks merging at her cleavage, a pool welling at her navel – and below – Draco swallowed – below, droplets beaded on the damp, dark curls between her legs.

‘Come back under the water,’ a male voice crooned, pouring icy water on Draco’s desire. A familiar freckled arm reached from behind the shower curtain, slithering around Hermione’s waist and tugging her away to where Draco couldn’t see. Their shadows danced and merged behind the curtain.

And then there were dreams that he was with his family. His father was always his old self in these dreams, the father Draco would threaten to carry tales to, larger than life and as tall as a tower. He could have smacked any enemy imaginable down with his cane. Until Draco had become a Death Eater, he never thought he could have a problem that his father wouldn’t iron out. Perhaps he would do it with a slightly exasperated look, but he would always do it.

Occasionally, a very bad dream bloomed, slicing his calm to ribbons.

He was a Death Eater again, his wand vibrating with dark energy. Or in Carrow’s Dark Arts class, a student prone and twitching in front of him, ready for the Cruciatus curse, bile rising in Draco’s throat. Or in the Room of Requirement, flames licking his heels.

‘Wake up,’ the guard snarled, grabbing Draco roughly by the shoulder. ‘Derry’s here.’

Draco found himself once again in front of the old warlock, wishing he could have at least made himself presentable beforehand; it was hard to hold one’s head up high in such a dishevelled state. The man across from him smiled thinly.

‘A sentence has been agreed on,’ he told Draco. ‘Ten years. The appeal was refused.’

‘Oh.’ That was the only thing Draco could think to say. All thoughts seemed to drown under his crashing heartbeat. 

‘You’ll be transported to Azkaban tomorrow evening. Your parents will be allowed a short visit beforehand.’

Time, which had previously dragged its feet in the monotony of his cell, now sprinted as Azkaban loomed on the horizon. There might not be Dementors anymore, but it would still be grim, inhumane and unbearable in there.

And then it was time to go and they were leading him to a little wooden carriage drawn by two Thestrals. The big, burly guard sat on his left side and an Auror he didn’t recognise sat on his right. Draco managed to give them both a sneer of deep loathing.

The carriage lurched forward as the Thestrals flapped their great wings; their rapid acceleration pushed Draco into the back of his seat.

They travelled in complete silence except for the whistle of wind, until they heard a loud bang and the shriek of a distressed Thestral about an hour into their journey. Judging by the speed they were travelling, Draco guessed they must be over the North Sea already, probably not far from the prison itself.

The carriage wobbled dangerously and careened to the right, throwing its three passengers into the wall.

The Auror struggled to his feet, drawing his wand, while Draco felt the guard’s wand poking sharply between his shoulder blades.

‘Don’t even think of trying anything,’ the guard snarled in Draco’s ear.

The Auror leant out the window, squinting against the wind. ‘One Thestral down,’ he muttered to himself.

The streak of red came out of nowhere, knocking the now-stunned Auror onto the carriage floor.

‘Mates of yours?’ the Guard sneered. ‘I’d sooner see you dead than walking away scot-free after all your family did during the War. I’m sure Shacklebolt would understand.’ He jabbed his wand deeper into Draco’s back. ‘You hear that?’ he roared out the window. ‘I’ll kill him before I let him escape!’

The left side of the carriage exploded away, wood splinters and smoke flying everywhere, leaving them exposed to the frozen night air. It was difficult to see in the dark, but it looked like there was water beneath them.

The carriage dipped lower as the single Thestral struggled under its weight. Soon, Draco could hear the crash of waves waiting to drown them below. Well, at least the guard would have his wish, although he probably hadn’t featured his own death as part of the bargain. Obviously thinking the same thing, Draco felt the body behind him stiffen in fear.

‘We can help each other out of this,’ Draco said quickly, seizing the opportunity. ‘Let me take the Auror’s wand. Or at least use _Enervate_ on him.

Hesitating only for a second, the guard pushed Draco to one side so he could help the Stunned Auror.

As soon as Draco was free, a second flash of red stunned the guard.

Of all the things Draco was expecting, he probably would never have imagined a small witch on a broom to pull up along the carriage, her mane of scarlet hair flickering like fire. 

‘Get on, Malfoy!’ she screamed.

‘Weasley?’ he shouted back.

‘Yeah! Now get on before I change my mind and let you drown!’

Not fancying an icy bath, he climbed on the back of the broom and they zoomed upwards. Glancing back, Draco saw Potter dive towards the guard and Auror, the rein of the free Thestral in hand. He tied their stunned bodies to the flying horse then slapped its flank. The Thestral would surely know to return home.

‘How are you doing?’ Draco heard Hermione shout over the wind. She was a couple of feet above his right shoulder, gripping her broom handle for dear life. While Draco would have much preferred to be holding on to her than the tiny Weasley, he had to admit that Weasley was a better flyer and probably the wiser choice in these weather conditions.

Potter rose up to meet them and without a word they turned west for the mainland.

‘Where are you taking me?’ he shouted in Weasley’s ear.

‘You’ll see!’ she shouted back.

They landed some time later on the roof of a high-rise block of flats.

‘This isn’t London, is it?’ Draco asked, turning round and failing to spot any of the well-known landmarks.

‘Manchester,’ Hermione said, dismounting from her broom. Her hair was a wind-swept monstrosity. Draco wanted to scoop her up in his arms and, given the tender look she was giving him, the feeling was probably mutual. 

Weasley cleared her throat.

‘Not that I’m complaining or anything, but is there any particular reason you’ve just helped me make the great escape,’ Draco asked, smoothing down his hair.

‘Hermione is convinced your innocent,’ Potter said quietly. ‘I’ve asked her to trust my instincts enough times, it’s only fair I trust hers now.’

‘And I just have nothing better on a Saturday night,’ Weasley said cheerfully.

‘We better get going,’ Hermione said. ‘Regan’s waiting for us.’

The heavy door of the terrace had been propped open ready for them and they traipsed down four flights of stairs.

‘So how did you get past the four guards outside the carriage?’ Draco asked, unable to hold his questions back.

‘We were three of them,’ Hermione said. ‘The fourth we stunned before heading out into open water. The Polyjuice wore off as we were flying but it didn’t matter by then.’

Hermione knocked on a door and it flew open.

The woman who answered it was in her late twenties, her olive face framed by short black corkscrews curls; she had the same intelligent brown eyes as Hermione and, as she broke into a grin, the same smile.

‘Down to the minute, you lot aren’t half punctual,’ she said.

Lots of wizards and witches dressed in jeans and t-shirts at home, so the woman’s Muggle clothing hadn’t stood out as strange to Draco, but the lack of any magical paraphernalia whatsoever in the flat alerted him to the fact that this was a real, dyed-in-the-wool Muggle.

‘This is my cousin Regan,’ Hermione told Draco.

‘Our family’s big on Shakespeare,’ Regan said.

‘She’s letting us stay here for a bit.’

‘Ready and willing to harbour fugitives,’ Regan said, leading them into living room. ‘You two want to crash here?’ she asked Potter and Weasley.

‘We better get back home,’ Potter said. ‘Don’t want to raise suspicion.’

Draco was glad when they’d left. He was grateful for their help, of course, but he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable and slightly resentful of his gratitude. Old habits did seem to die hard.

‘Won’t they be suspicious of you?’ Draco asked Hermione.

She nodded. ‘That ship has sort of already sailed. I shouted at Kingsley a bit when your appeal was refused. He has to know I’m a part of this. I’m praying he thinks I acted alone and doesn’t bother any of my friends.’

‘You didn’t bring Weasley with you – I mean Ron Weasley,’ Draco amended.

Hermione shook her head and bit her lip. Draco imagined that Weasley had been too indecently pleased about his arrest to be roped into helping.

‘Draco, hop in the shower any time you want,’ Regan said, putting a cup of tea in front of him. ‘It’s on your left opposite the guest bedroom. My brother left some of his clothes here last time he visited – clean, don’t worry – they’re on the bed.’

‘Thank you,’ Draco said, standing up. ‘I think I’ll feel better afterwards.’

As he closed the bathroom door, he heard Regan whisper: ‘Nice one, Mione, he’s much hotter than the ginger!’


	22. Chapter 22

Regan pulled a blanket around Hermione’s shoulders. ‘You know, there’s a shower in my bedroom, too. You look like you could do with warming up,’

Hermione smiled at Regan. ‘I’ll take you up on that in a bit. Nothing like flying across the North Sea on a broom in midwinter to put a chill in your bones.’

Regan’s eyebrows flew up. ‘I _knew_ your people had broomsticks. Damn, now I’m jealous.’

‘It’s not nearly as fun as it sounds,’ Hermione assured her.

Regan dropped her voice and leaned in closer to Hermione. ‘So, this Draco? What exactly’s going on between you?’

‘We’re friends,’ Hermione said automatically. ‘He was arrested.’ Here her stomach twinged guiltily. ‘But, Ray, you should have seen the trial. It was appalling! From the second they put him on the stand, they were determined to see him guilty – they left out major pieces of evidence. I don’t know everything about the case, but I do know that this other bloke, Theodore Nott, definitely had his hands on the book at some point. But his name didn’t even come up once during the trial. And they didn’t question me – I offered, I told Kingsley I would stand but he said he didn’t think it would be necessary.’ Hermione let out a bitter laugh. ‘I thought our world was changing, but it’s just as corrupt as before!’

Regan rubbed her arm sympathetically. ‘Well, let’s take one problem at a time, shall we? You two are safe here for now. But back to my original question – I mean, you two must be pretty close friends for you to go through all this for him.’

Hermione didn’t miss the highly suggestive tone of her cousin’s voice but she just shook her head, choosing to ignore it. In spite of the inconvenient butterflies in her stomach, she had made her decision and she was happy with Ron; she just had to get Draco out of the mess she had put him in.

Hermione lifted her head as she heard Draco’s bare feet padding softly into the room; he looked cleaner and considerably more content.

‘Thanks, Regan,’ he said. ‘For the clothes and the harbouring.’

‘No problem,’ Regan answered. ‘How do they fit? Sebastian’s quite a bit shorter than you.’

It was true that even though the waistline of the jeans was more than ample, the legs were several inches too short; the red plaid shirt billowed around his thin frame but the cuffs didn’t come all the way down to his wrist.

‘I’ll adjust them, ‘Hermione said, standing up. ‘But I better not do it in front of you, Regan. Our government can track magic done in front of a non-magical person – something we’d obviously rather avoid right now.’

Hermione followed Draco back into the bedroom and closed the door, just in case. Draco stood legs slightly apart and arms out like he was going to be frisked at the airport and Hermione ran her wand lightly over his clothes – where her wand touched, the material grew or shrunk to hug Draco’s shape.

‘Nice job,’ he commented. ‘You should work for Gladrags.’

Hermione ignored this comment – she had come to his right hand, which was misshapen, bones knotted unnaturally. She touched it and he inhaled sharply.

‘What happened?’ she whispered.

‘I lost a fight against a wall,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘Can you heal it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hermione said. ‘I think the bones have already started to mend in this shape – if I heal your hand now, the bones will still be all over the place. I think – I think we’ll have to break the bones again before healing it. Come on, let Regan have a look, she’s a doctor.’

Regan’s upbeat friendliness immediately dissipated as she deftly examined Draco’s hand and confirmed it would need to be re-broken. ‘You’ll have to go to the hospital.’

What little colour Draco ever had in his face drained. ‘A Muggle hospital?’ He looked like he would rather be back on his way to Azkaban. ‘Can’t you just break it here?’

‘I can heal it straightaway with magic afterwards,’ Hermione pointed out.

‘I don’t have the tools,’ Regan said.

‘Hermione can conjure or summon anything you need,’ Draco said quickly. ‘She’s an excellent witch.’

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ Regan groaned, and jotted down the names of a few items for Hermione to conjure in the next room. Draco gave her a panicked look which Hermione supposed roughly translated to: _Please don’t leave me alone with this madwoman!_

After Regan had skilfully re-broken Draco’s hand, she darted out of the room so Hermione could heal it. Draco was shouting a string of choice swearwords; he’d baulked at the syringe Regan had tried to come near him with, hotly refusing any anaesthetic.

‘Done!’ Hermione said and Draco let out a groan of relief, closing his eyes. Hermione pressed her hand to his forehead; it was damp with sweat. ‘You should probably get some sleep. Take the guest bedroom, I don’t mind kipping on the couch.’

Draco’s eyes flew open, scandalised. ‘And what sort of gentleman would I be if I let you take the couch? My ancestors would turn in their grave if they knew I’d treated a lady in such a way.’

‘I’m not sure your ancestors would classify me as a lady,’ Hermione pointed out.

Draco’s smile faded a little. ‘No, they wouldn’t. Then again, quite a number of them believed the Earth was flat, so their opinions can’t be taken too seriously.’

‘Thanks,’ Hermione said. ‘All the same, you’ve been in that dreadful cell for weeks, you deserve a proper bed.’

‘Hey, there’s plenty of room for two in that bed!’ Regan called from the kitchen. ‘And I sleep like the dead so don’t worry about me!’

Hermione felt her face heat up and Draco found something fascinating to read on the cover of the magazine on the coffee table.

‘Let me take the couch,’ Draco said, not taking his eyes off Life Science, apparently transfixed by the mention of a new allergy-prevention drug. ‘I wouldn’t feel right otherwise.’

Hermione was about to say something along the lines of chivalry being more of a Gryffindor trait but she stopped herself and nodded her assent.

Regan had already left for work when Hermione woke up the next morning; Draco was doing a crossword puzzle.

‘Your cousin said we should help ourselves to breakfast. Thing is, there’s nothing in the cupboard except for dust bunnies and something called ‘Pop Tarts’, which can barely be called edible.’

Hermione laughed. ‘Regan’s pretty busy. When you have hearts to sew into people, food shopping doesn’t make it high on the list of priorities.’

Draco pulled a face. ‘She doesn’t really sew hearts into people, does she?’

Hermione winked at him. ‘Of course not. Her speciality is kidneys, so she sews kidneys into people.’

‘Where do they get the kidneys from?’ Draco asked, looking like he didn’t want to hear the answer.

‘Donors. Or dead people.’

‘I’m so glad I didn’t let her take me to that hospital,’ Draco said, shaking his head.

Even though it was probably perfectly safe to go outside, Manchester not being famed for having a high wizard population, Hermione thought it best to stay in, at least for now, and ordered pizza over the phone. This turned out to be a good idea, as they found out from Regan when she got home about teatime.

‘Have you seen the news?’ Regan demanded, throwing her bag on the sideboard. 

‘No, what’s the-‘

In response, Regan picked up the remote and turned on the TV. There was something on the BBC about bombings in the Philippines the day before.

‘OK, wait a minute, they’ll show it soon.’

Sure enough, after a couple of stories, Draco’s face appeared on the screen.

‘This man is armed and extremely dangerous,’ the news reporter was saying seriously. ‘The public is warned not to approach him under any circumstances but to phone this hotline immediately.’

‘That’s such an unflattering photograph,’ Draco muttered. ‘What, I know that’s not our biggest issue right now,’ he added hastily when Hermione glared at him. ‘I’m just saying, they could have picked a better photo.’

‘I’m so sorry, Regan, I never thought they’d get the non-Magical community involved in this,’ Hermione said, kicking herself for not foreseeing this outcome. 

Regan nodded weakly. ‘Well, I guess there’s no turning back now. You’d best get Draco’s name cleared.’

* * *

‘It’s a shame we can’t even go out for a few drinks tonight,’ Hermione said absently as she and Draco picked at the cold pizza in front of them. Regan had already left to meet some friends from work.

‘Why? Isn’t it a Sunday?’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve really lost track of time. It’s New Year’s Eve.’

Hermione wondered what sort of New Year’s Eve parties Draco was used to. She didn’t doubt that Malfoy Manor was usually resplendent and anyone who was anyone in the Wizarding world was invited. Her parents’ parties were usually a quieter affair, mostly filled with dentists, with the occasional doctor or barrister present. And their kids, if they had any, well-read, pretentious know-it-alls who would quiz each on their university ambitions. Hermione had to smile to herself – she was the worst of the lot!

Draco grinned evilly. ‘Well, Regan may not have food, but I’ve noticed that there’s alcohol aplenty about the place. Even rum.’

‘Good old Regan,’ Hermione cheered. 

Hermione knocked back the first two glasses dangerously quickly. ‘I needed that more than I realised.’

‘We better slow down,’ Draco agreed. ‘Vomiting all over Regan’s floor would be a poor way to repay her hospitality.’ His smile faded. ‘Hermione, you know I didn’t take the book, don’t you? You know that Qabbilar and Platt and all those were lying, don’t you?’

‘Lying,’ Hermione mused. ‘Or mistaken. What if they did see someone – someone who looked like you?’

‘Polyjuice?’ Draco asked doubtfully, frowning.

Hermione hesitated. That had not been her first thought. She had thought that there was someone else who fitted Draco’s description, someone who, at a distance, might pass for him.

‘Maybe,’ she allowed eventually. ‘Either way, I believe it wasn’t you.’ She found her hand on his and her heart ached unexpectedly. It had been a while since she’d touched him and she only now realised how much she had missed it.

‘Why?’ Draco asked quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Hermione said. ‘I just _know_ somehow. I trust you. I should have trusted you from the start.’

A couple of fireworks went off outside, giving Hermione an excuse to look away. ‘Idiots. It’s not midnight for another twenty minutes.’

Draco leaned back and finished the rest of his drink. ‘You know, it’s a tradition to make sparrow wishes on New Years Eve and release them at midnight. It’s a bit old-fashioned now, but we still do it in the manor.’

‘What’s a sparrow wish?’ Hermione asked. She’d never read about it anywhere; she supposed it was one of those pure-blood, word-of-mouth traditions that old Wizarding families guarded jealously from the outside world. 

‘You’ll find it easy,’ Draco said. ‘You’re a dab hand at origami.’ 

They found some coloured card in Regan’s desk and Draco showed her the traditional way to fold a sparrow; it didn’t look much different from the robin she’d made him.

‘And now we write our wishes for the coming year on the wings,’ Draco said. ‘But don’t show me; like any wish, if you tell anyone, it won’t come true. Seven wishes are the luckiest.’

They sat in silence for a bit while they decided on their wishes and wrote their wishes on the wings of the sparrows.

_I wish Draco would be proven innocent._

_I wish my father would make a full recovery._

_I wish Regan wouldn’t suffer for helping us._

_I wish the Ministry would stop being so corrupt._

_I wish my hair decided it would behave this year._

_I wish chocolate had no calories._

_I wish I knew who to be in love with._

Hermione folded the wing down to hide her wishes.

‘Well, I still don’t have my wand, so you’ll have to do the incantation,’ Draco said and gave her the exact instructions. 

The little sparrows cocked their heads as they came to life. Draco’s hopped around on the coffee table, pecking at stray bits of paper, while Hermione’s started to preen itself.

‘Now we take them outside.’

They carried their new little sparrows onto the balcony. Outside, it was a cold, clear night. Hermione’s sparrow shivered in her palms. She watched Draco bring the sparrow up to his lips and whispered in its ear: ‘Take my wishes to heaven.’ He then threw it up into the air and the bird fluttered off into the dark.

‘Take my wishes to heaven,’ Hermione whispered to her sparrow and it chirped in agreement. She was almost sad to see it disappear into the night.

As they watched their birds fly, an eruption of fireworks took over the city.

‘Midnight,’ Hermione whispered. She glanced at Draco, the rum warming her bones and making her brave. ‘You know, Muggles have a different tradition for midnight.’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Ignoring the warring inside herself and almost certain she would regret it in the morning, she leant forward and brushed her lips against his. For a split second she was worried she had miscalculated and her advances would be unwanted, but then he kissed her back in earnest, teasing her lower lip with his teeth until she opened her mouth, welcoming his tongue. She hummed her approval, reaching eagerly to touch him, curling her fingers into his shirt and closing the gap between them; she trailed her other hand through his hair, which was just as soft and silky as she had always thought it looked.

They pulled apart, both breathing hard. Hermione almost whimpered in disappointment as his lips left hers.

‘Well, it’s not a sunset, but I’m not complaining,’ Draco grinned to himself.

‘What?’

‘Like that film we saw, when they kissed in front of the sunset at the end. I was imagining our first kiss to be like that.’

Hermione giggled. ‘I didn’t realise you were a hopeless romantic.’

‘Don’t tell anyone – I have a reputation as a heartless bastard to protect,’ he murmured in her ear before brushing his lips along her neck, ghosting kisses on her pulse. He was barely touching her but her heart was racing, fire burning in the pit of her belly.

‘Draco, I need to end it with Ron before things go any further,’ Hermione said, wishing she didn’t have to. She would have like nothing more than to drag him into the spare bedroom and rip his clothes off.

Given Draco’s crestfallen expression, his thoughts were along the same lines. ‘That’s only fair.’ He paused. ‘How about going now? I’ll have another drink ready for when you come back.’

Hermione raised an amused eyebrow. ‘I’m sure we can control ourselves until tomorrow.’

‘Well, of course we _can_ , but why would we want to.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’m joking, of course. Tell the Weasel he’s come in second tomorrow.’

She smacked him on the arm.

* * *

As she did agree with him that it was better that Ron find out sooner rather than later, and also because she was itching to carry on where they had left off, she did go and see Ron the next day, waiting until midmorning to make sure he was awake.

Instead of finding him hung-over with his head in the toilet as she had expected, he was fully-dressed, completely sober and reading ‘Which Broomstick?’ with an unduly murderous expression.

‘Didn’t go out last night?’ Hermione asked, puzzled.

He glowered at her, smacking his magazine down on the table. ‘I was wondering when you’d show your face!’

Hermione panicked. Surely he didn’t know about her and Draco already?

‘I spoke to Harry and Ginny,’ Ron said, standing up and pacing, raking his hands through his dishevelled red hair. ‘I’m fuming with him, too, but it looks like it was all your idea. Harry wouldn’t say so outright, of course, not our Harry, but he let something slip.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Hermione asked as calmly as he could.

Ron turned to face her, his stormy face mere inches away from hers. She’d never been so aware of how tall he was until now – she felt tiny but strained to her full height, unwilling to be intimidated. 

‘You dragged my little sister into saving a _known Death Eater_ from prison. What were you thinking? If you and Harry really want to do insane things, I can’t stop you, but leave. Ginny. Out. Of. It,’ he spelled out.

‘Ginny’s an adult, Ron, she can do what she likes,’ Hermione said softly.

‘I’m still her big brother – I’m always going to look out for her,’ Ron snarled, thumping himself back down on the couch and massaging the bridge of his nose. 

‘Are you going to tell on us?’ Hermione asked him.

‘Of course not,’ he muttered. ‘You’re bloody mad, the three of you, but what’s done is done. I expect Malfoy’s fled the country by now, anyway.’

She didn’t correct him. It might be easier if he thought that.

‘That’s actually not why I’m here,’ Hermione said, sitting down next to him. Now that Ron’s anger was spent, it was going to be harder than she thought.

‘So why are you here, then?’ he asked her.

The silence probably only lasted a couple of second but it stretched thinly between them, ready to snap.

‘It’s not going to work between us,’ she whispered.

Ron looked at her, dumbfounded. ‘Where has this come from?’

Hermione couldn’t find the words. Her hands shaking, she struggled to find the right thing to say – and then to find anything to say.

‘Is there someone else?’

Her silence spoke volumes now. Ron crumpled his face into his hands.

‘Merlin. I never would have thought it, not from you,’ he said hoarsely.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hermione said, a useless, worthless apology if ever there was one. She felt as though she might throw up.

‘But who?’ Ron started, shaking his head slowly, obviously sifting through every encounter he’d ever seen her have with another man. ‘Not – oh God – it’s not Malfoy, is it?’

She dropped her head, tears falling into her lap.

‘Malfoy? Seriously? Don’t you have more self-respect than that? After all the names he’s called you over the years?’

‘The war changed him,’ she said evenly.

‘Looks like it changed you, too,’ Ron muttered darkly.

For the longest time they just sat like that, Hermione trying not to cry and Ron staring disbelievingly into his palms. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

‘There’s nothing more to say, is there?’ he said. ‘Just so you know, I’m not going to take you back when this thing has run its course.’

‘I wouldn’t expect that,’ Hermione said.

‘Because it will. Malfoy might act all tolerant because that’s what society expects of him, but you can’t change his upbringing – he’s going to want to marry a pureblood. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, but in a few years’ time he’s going to start looking for someone to give him an heir.’

Hermione swallowed. Ron was saying these things partly to hurt her, but she couldn’t deny there might be some truth in his words. All she knew was that no relationship had its guarantees – but after the kiss she had shared with Draco the night before, she had to try.

‘Get going, then,’ Ron said, shaking his head in disgust.


	23. Chapter 23

Hermione had looked in no mood to talk when she came back from London. Draco could empathise; the five times or so he had tried to end things definitively between him and Pansy, he’d felt like a piece of shit afterwards. Wordlessly, he’d pulled a blanket over her and pulled the good ice cream from the freezer.

‘I feel like I shouldn’t be talking to you about Ron,’ Hermione said.

‘If you need to talk, talk,’ Draco said, caressing her wrist.

‘He was my best friend. For years. Nearly a decade, really. Now he’s never going to speak to me again. Neither will Harry or Ginny. Any of the Weasleys.’

Draco failed to see how the absence of the Weasleys from one’s life could be a devastating loss but refrained from saying so.

Soon, she was asleep, breathing deeply against his chest. Gingerly, he held her in his arms, promising himself he would never let her go. Thinking of the sparrow he had released into the sky the night before, he wondered if one of his wishes had already come true.

Still, he couldn’t rely on chance to bring his other wishes about – he needed to be proactive if he was going to get his life back.

And first thing’s first, he needed to get the Grimoire out of his parents’ house – if it was finally found by the Ministry, his parents might be accused of helping Draco hide it. And he could never do that to them. His mother might stand it, but Lucius no longer had the nerve to stand up in court, and being sent to Azkaban again would almost certainly kill him.

‘Where are you going?’ Hermione asked, waking up and gazing at him reproachfully as he pulled on one of Sebastian’s altered jackets.

Draco considered lying for a second – saying he was going to buy more milk or had a craving for cheesecake or some other white lie, but stopped himself just in time. Lying had always come easy to him – the less other people knew, the better. But Hermione had saved him, given up her weasel for him, let him into her life when everyone else was shutting him out. She didn’t deserve to be lied to.

‘I need to get that book out of the manor,’ he told her.

He was expecting her to protest, to say it was too dangerous. He even thought she might be angry with him for leaving. He was not expecting her to nod her head thoughtfully. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘You’ve done too much already,’ Draco started.

‘You need me with you,’ Hermione said. ‘For one, you were about to step outside looking like you. You’re all over the news, remember? We need to disguise you! I should probably do me, too, just in case we run into any of our kind. But I want to wait for Regan to come home first – just in case we don’t come back here. Ron said yesterday that you’d probably left the country, and I’m starting to think that’s not a bad idea.’

Draco nodded, sitting back down beside Hermione. Naturally, like magnets, their fingers linked together. That sounded sensible, actually. The only problem was, they’d be on the run for the rest of their lives. What they really needed was some way to find the truth.

Although Draco had always done his best to hide his vanity, he had always liked how he looked. So it was with some sadness that he sat in front of the mirror and allowed Hermione to make him look ‘a bit more forgettable’. The hair was the first thing to go; it coarsened and darkened and frizzed a little at the ends. His eyebrows darkened to match and thickened from their elegant arches into fuzzy caterpillars. His nose shortened and widened, flaring at the nostrils, and his eyes brightened to blue. Finally, she changed his skin colour – the darker hue trickled down his face, tickling as it made its way over his entire body.

‘That should do it,’ Hermione said, sounding pleased. ‘We won’t bother with your body, your face looks different enough.’

‘Well, that’s something,’ Draco said, frowning at his reflection and feeling unnerved when the foreign face frowned back.

Hermione then turned her wand on herself. Her face became rounder and fairer, her nose shrinking to a button and her eyes lightening to hazel. Her hair shortened, sucking up until it fell almost to her shoulders, then deepened to almost black. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to make it less bushy, Hermione gave up and pulled it away from her face with a hairband. 

They didn’t have to wait much longer for Regan to come back. Yawning from her night shift, she started to call out a greeting then froze when she saw them.

‘It’s me and Draco,’ Hermione said quickly. ‘Magic,’ she offered by way of explanation.

Regan seemed to be coping admirably, in Draco’s opinion, given her sudden exposure to a wide range of magic and peril. Not only was she supportive but she insisted on giving Hermione her old mobile.

‘I don’t need it, I’ve just upgraded. See, it’s one of these new ones with a camera in it,’ Regan said, showing it off enthusiastically. ‘So, here’s my number if you need help. Or if you need to phone an ambulance or the police or something.’

Draco understood only about a third of the conversation but said thank you anyway as Hermione took the small oblong gadget off her cousin.

Taking Hermione’s arm, he disapparated them from bustling Manchester to the outskirts of a quiet little village in Wiltshire. The ground was crusty with snow and the gnarled trees were stiff and bare of leaves. 

They walked onto the main street, where people were gathering to chat around the post office, mothers holding tightly onto the mittened hands of their children, while others built snowmen on the common. Draco found it strange that he could walk around without villagers scuttling out of his way, eyes wide and skittish. 

‘Where are we?’ Hermione asked, studying the pretty shop windows as they passed. Most were still full of gold-and-red-foiled chocolates, mistletoe, miniscule reindeer and snowflakes.

‘Sedgehill,’ he said. ‘Nearest village to Malfoy Manor. The Ministry is probably watching, so we can’t exactly go through the front door, but there’s a secret passageway connecting this village to the manor. My grandfather built it during the first wizarding war.’

‘You Malfoys could write a book on how not to get caught,’ Hermione said, half-teasing and half-admiring. 

Not having had breakfast, they stopped for iced buns and mugs of hot milky tea in a little café run by a bubbly woman in her late fifties. After asking Draco and Hermione if they were tourists, she rattled off a few local landmarks – apparently the castle and abbey were well worth a visit –but if they walked up to the top of the hill there was a nice view overlooking an old manor, but they wouldn’t be able to get any closer than that.

‘Locals like to say that evil sorcerers live there,’ the woman said with a screeching laugh, pouring Hermione more tea. ‘One of those urban legends, you know, pet. But it’s just some oddball family that like to keep themselves to themselves.’

Draco glowered at the woman but was also slightly unnerved at how close the villagers had come to the truth; it looked like they didn’t walk around with their eyes closed and their ears plugged up after all. He looked over at Hermione to see she was fighting down a giggle.

The main road of the village petered out into a little mud lane flanked by holly bushes and empty fields. Draco and Hermione walked along it for a few hundred yards until Draco spotted the crooked spire of a small stone church in the woods.

‘Come on,’ he said, taking Hermione’s hand and pushing through the hedges. They tramped through the long, icy grass, precariously dodging brambles and potholes until they got to the church.

Half of one wall had caved in and it was evidently being used as a home by several small woodland creatures, which scurried away when Draco and Hermione stepped inside.

‘Creepy,’ Hermione breathed, taking in the damp walls with their scenes of fire and brimstone. One fresco showed a witch being burnt alive. ‘Was this ever a real church or just a decoy?’

Draco had never considered that. His grandfather had been a great one for attention to detail, he knew that; and, like all Malfoys, he nursed his prejudices tenderly. Creating a ruin as an entrance and then covering it in early modern scenes of witch hunts to broadcast the foibles of Muggles as a reminder for generations of Malfoys to come seemed like the sort of thing he would do.

He walked up to the damp, rotten pulpit where the secret passageway began. He’d only been there once before when he was quite young. Abraxas, even in his twilight years, enjoyed a stroll in the countryside, and often bid Draco join him so he could point out certain species of moth or songbird or some other beast that Muggles in their folly were driving to extinction. His sour old mouth would always twist with contempt when he caught sight of a Muggle dwelling or car, and if he saw an actual flesh-and-blood Muggle he’d grip his cane until his knuckles were white to stop himself hexing them. In the woods, however, a serenity overcame Abraxas, and he looked as close to happy or human as Draco had ever seen him.

On one of these walks, they had passed the church and Abraxas had dug his fingers into Draco’s shoulder for extra support as they picked their way over hidden rocks in the grass. It was midsummer then, and the air was heavy with heather and roses; Abraxas had had to take out his wand to clear a path through the nettles.

It had frightened Draco to see his grandfather take out a dagger and slice his palm, then tighten his fist so that the blood dripped onto the rotting wood.

‘Only a Malfoy may open the passage,’ Abraxas had told Draco as the wood folded in on itself, collapsing to reveal a stone staircase spiralling into the ground. ‘A Malfoy by blood or marriage.’ His steel grey eyes – Lucius’ eyes, Draco’s eyes – had shone with a vital pride, a pride that had fired up in Draco’s own heart to realise that he belonged to this secret, special group of people.

‘A Malfoy by blood or marriage,’ Draco muttered to himself, running the blade over his own palm, cutting through lifelines and heartlines; his pure blood spotted the soft wood beneath.

Just like it had done years before, the pulpit collapsed to allow Draco and Hermione to pass.

‘Lumos,’ Hermione whispered, holding her wand aloft to light the way. As quiet as her voice had been, it echoed down the stone tunnel.

‘Where does this come out?’ Hermione asked Draco, keeping close by his side.

‘In the dungeon. And I know how to get from there to the attic without being seen. If either of my parents saw me like this they’d curse first and ask questions second.’ Draco paused. ‘While I’m there, I can get my old wand, the hawthorn. They say that hawthorns work well when the owner is going through a period of turmoil – well, I’m in turmoil now if ever I have been,’ he said darkly.

When they got to the end of the tunnel, they were able to step through the shimmering brick that sealed fast behind them. Return passage would mean another blood payment. 

The dungeons had always made Draco feel somewhat uneasy; glancing over at Hermione, he saw her grimace and guilt prickled in his stomach as he remembered what she had suffered the last time she was here. What his aunt had put her through.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered to her.

She smiled up at him. It was not a happy smile, but still a sincere one. ‘That was a lifetime ago. We were different people.’

The dungeons were unlocked. Draco thought this was a happy coincidence until he saw a small package near the door. His wand, that traitor hawthorn, was wrapped up with a little note. His mother’s handwriting simply warned him to be careful. 

Draco ran his finger over the wood affectionately and it seemed to hum with heat under his touch, the way it had first done in Diagon Alley. Perhaps he and it were ready to be friends again?

Feeling much better with a wand in his hand again, he and Hermione took the house elf staircase to the attic, crawling on their hands and knees for most of it thanks to the low roof.

‘Why is there even a house elf staircase when they’re so skilled at apparation?’ Hermione asked curiously.

‘Well,’ Draco said, hesitating because he knew she wouldn’t like the answer. ‘The ones to sick to apparate still had to work. And the young house elves who hadn’t learnt to apparate yet used them.’

‘No sick leave and child labour. Fantastic,’ she snarled.

‘But it’s all in the past now, right,’ Draco said with forced brightness. ‘They’re all getting paid now. Father says sorting out the payroll gives him a headache but he still does it.’

Draco stopped suddenly as they neared the attic.

‘What-’ Hermione began.

‘Sh! Don’t you hear voices?’

On the other side of the wall, people were clearly having an argument; Hermione crept up next to Draco so she could hear better.

‘Pointless standing guard here all the time,’ someone was saying, their voice muffled by stone.

‘Well, we’re not leaving. Knowing our luck, the second we leave the boy will be back to get the book! Shacklebolt would have our bloody guts for garters!’ The second voice was firmer than the first and sounded in charge.

‘How do they know it’s not in the library? Or under the drawing room?’

‘Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Point is, we’ve been told to guard this room, not the effing library.’

Draco cursed bitterly under his breath. He’d thought the Ministry would be watching the manor, but he hadn’t realised they’d be in the manor.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Hermione whispered in his ear. ‘Is there another exit?’

‘A little further back there’s an opening,’ Draco said. ‘Did you notice the knotted piece of wood next to the candle? It opens a door to the floor below.’

‘Stay here,’ Hermione said. ‘I’m going to provide a distraction – I’ve got a bunch of Decoy Detonators in my bag. It should buy you at least five minutes to get the book. Is that enough time?’

‘Plenty,’ Draco muttered. 

She crawled backwards down the stairs and within minutes, as promised, there was a lot of banging and wailing and shattering of what sounded like priceless family heirlooms coming from downstairs.

‘What the blazes!’ one of the wizards on guard shouted.

‘I’m going to investigate,’ the other said and Draco heard the stomp of feet on the creaking attic floorboards. ‘Wait here.’

Draco prayed fervently for the second wizard to ignore the order and go downstairs as well. Fortunately, when a short scream came from downstairs, the second wizard ran to help.

‘Phil? Phil, are you alright?’

Draco pushed the stone away and pulled himself through and into the attic. The bookcase where he’s left the Grimoire looked much the same except it was surrounded by red tape and floating memos.

Draco pulled the Grimoire free from its hiding place. The dark, uneasy feeling he’d had when first handling the book returned to him – a darkness, but also a longing, like the book was begging to be read, to be exploited. Shivering, Draco grabbed a tablecloth folded on top of a dresser and wrapped the book up tight, hoping that would dispel some of the clearly evil magic emanating off it.

Hermione was waiting for him in the staircase.

‘What did you do to them?’ Draco asked curiously. ‘I heard a scream.’

‘Just a trip jinx,’ Hermione said, smirking. ‘An old favourite of yours, if I recall correctly.’

Despite the awkwardness of the environment, being cramped into a tiny staircase, Draco cupped her face under the chin and pulled her forward for a kiss. 

‘How did I fail to see, for so many years, how brilliant you were?’ he murmured in her ear.

‘I suppose you can’t have been looking hard enough,’ she said breathlessly.


	24. Chapter 24

‘We need to hide this somewhere safe,’ Draco said.

They were back in Sedgehill, in a friendly little pub, the Grimoire between them on the table. There was something alluring about the way it was wrapped up so they couldn’t see it, something that made Hermione yearn to pull the blanket off so she could read it cover to cover. She imagined what the texture of the paper might feel like, what sort of scent it had.

‘Well, we certainly can’t keep it with us,’ Hermione said, tearing her eyes off the book. ‘Even if we do keep ourselves from reading it, carrying such a dark object around with you has consequences. When Harry, Ron and I had to wear a Horcrux locket, it had a terrible effect on us.’

They discussed the various places they might keep it, but it was so difficult to find somewhere where nobody would think to look for it.

‘What about just choosing a random library,’ Draco suggested. ‘Some Muggle library? No wizard would find it there.’

‘But a Muggle might,’ Hermione argued. ‘This book wants to be read, it’ll pull someone in to read it.’

Draco’s expression darkened and he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, frustrated to find an answer. 

In the end, the only solution they came up with was to bury the book in the woods. They found a distinctive-looking grove of elms in the Peak District and hid the book amongst the roots of the biggest one. Hermione felt relief wash over her as she threw dirt over the wicked thing and it disappeared from sight.

‘I hope the tree will be alright,’ Hermione said, only half-joking. She imagined coming back to find it rotten and blackened from the influence of the book.

* * *

For the next few days, Hermione and Draco lay low in Regan’s flat, trying to come up with a plan, playing card games and watching the news. Draco’s face flickered up occasionally, a photograph which had obviously been magically altered not to move and to show him dressed as a Muggle.

‘As though I would ever wear a jumper that colour?’ Draco muttered, taking his eyes off the glass he was levitating and losing concentration; he caught it in his hand just before it hit the floor. ‘I can hardly claim any expertise on Muggle fashion, but anyone with two working eyes can tell that looks like dung.’

‘So vain!’ Hermione said, but stopping to massage his wrist affectionately. Even such a slight touch sent shivers through her, caused her heart to race.

‘It’s not vanity,’ Draco said. ‘It’s just self-respect.’ His seriousness on this subject made her want to laugh but she restrained herself.

Draco raised his wand again and transfigured the glass into a magpie, testing his bond with the hawthorn.

‘How does it feel?’ Hermione asked.

‘Much better,’ Draco said. ‘Better than I could have hoped, actually. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but it feels even smoother to use than it did before Potter took it.’

‘Maybe you’re a better wizard?’ Hermione suggested. ‘Or maybe it wants to help you?’

‘Hmm,’ Draco said, turning the wand over in his hand and smiling at it. The magpie hopped out of his hand and soared out the window.

‘That’s the third of Regan’s glasses to run away,’ Hermione said, watching the bird disappear out of sight. ‘We need to start getting replacements.’

Draco looked up and grinned mischievously. His smile, his true smile, was so much more beautiful than the arrogant smirk he had flashed throughout school. She barely had time to marvel at how different a person he looked wearing an expression that was so similar when he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

‘Speaking of your cousin,’ Draco whispered in her ear. ‘I notice that she’s not here at the moment. We should take advantage of her absence while we can.’

He nipped at her earlobe playfully before dropping his head to kiss her neck.

‘Take advantage how?’ Hermione asked. He drew back so that they were face to face, noses brushing, and she feigned a confused innocence.

‘I want to kiss you,’ he breathed.

‘You just have.’

‘All over.’

His eyes dark, he let his gaze wander down her body, leaving little room for misinterpretation. Hermione closed her eyes and pulled him closer to her, inhaling the scent of his skin, letting one of her fingers trace his jawline.

‘You’ve been eating apples again,’ she said, gently tasting his lower lip in confirmation. 

He kissed her full on the mouth, overpowering her, walking her backwards until they came to the wall. There was a need, an insistence to his kisses that stirred her, building an ache in her lower belly.

They were interrupted by an owl tapping on the glass.

Draco immediately went rigid, eyes fearful and alert. He clearly thought the Ministry had found them but Hermione sighed in relief when she saw a large snowy owl outside.

‘It’s alright, it’s only Templeton,’ Hermione said, walking over to let the owl in. 

‘Is that Potter’s owl?’ Draco asked as Hermione restrained the bird from flying off immediately.

‘Wait a bit,’ she told Templeton. ‘I want to write back.’ To Draco, she added: ‘Yes. Not the one you might have seen at school, but yes, Templeton’s Harry’s.’

She read aloud for Draco to hear while Templeton sniffed around for anything resembling an owl treat.

_Dear Hermione (and Malfoy, I guess),_

_Hope you’re alright! I haven’t heard anything, so that’s good news in itself._

_I’ve been looking into the Grimoire case and I’ve got to agree with you, it’s a bit fishy. I managed to get Horus Qabbilar on his own and pressed him for more information. He seemed a bit scared of me, to be honest, which was useful. Anyway, I’m pretty sure his memory has been altered. When I asked him for specific details, he looked confused, and when I convinced him to show me the memory in a pensieve, everything was a bit shadowy._

_I tried to get clearance to visit Nott but the Healers wouldn’t let me in. He’s not safe. They’ve brought in curse experts from all over the world but nobody can say what’s the matter with him. Of course, they only told me this because I’m an Auror (and I defeated Voldemort, so people tell me stuff!) But seriously, I’m surprised something this dark and dangerous hasn’t been reported in the news. Kingsley just says he doesn’t want to cause panic._

_That’s all the news I’ve got for now._

_Ginny sends her love. Ron says to stay safe._

_Love_

_Harry_

‘Doesn’t want to cause panic, that’s the kind of thing Fudge and Scrimgeour would have said,’ Hermione said bitterly, gripping the letter in frustration. 

Draco looked thoughtful.

‘Potter thinks Qabbilar has had his memory tampered with,’ he said slowly. ‘But who would do that. Who would have it in for me?’ He grimaced. ‘Stupid question, right? Most of the wizarding world want to see me behind bars!’

Hermione reached for his hand and squeezed it. Draco forced a smile.

‘At least the Weasel clan don’t hate you,’ he pointed out.

That was true, Hermione realised, her heart leaping. Harry was far too oblivious to other people’s emotions to have made something like that up to make her feel better. Ginny had managed to forgive her and even Ron didn’t want her to come to any harm.

Hermione wrote back arranging a date to meet up in London in a few days’ time. In their disguises, she and Draco should be quite safe. 

When Hermione had finished scribbling her reply, she glanced up to find Draco looking lost in thought, a crease of worry on his forehead. She leant forward and kissed it away.

‘We’re making progress,’ she told him. ‘And Harry’s on our side. Let’s face it, he has a lucky streak a mile wide. The boy’s like a human horseshoe!’


	25. Chapter 25

_A.N. This chapter’s a little more graphic – but I’m sure none of you will mind!_

Hermione did wonders to soothe Draco’s worry. Just the fact that she was near made him feel better; whatever he had to face, it made the world of difference knowing he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

He was sitting on the couch, watching the snowy owl fade to a speck in the sky and wondering idly why Potter had to show off by getting himself such a fancy owl when Hermione hugged him from behind. Her arm curled around his chest and she buried her face in his hair, her own frizzy mass of curls engulfing Draco.

‘You know what helps me when I’m worried?’ she said.

Knowing her it would be reading or work, neither of which appealed to Draco at that moment.

‘A nice long bubble bath,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘I’ll draw you one.’

She took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom. Soon, the air was humid, steam from the cascading hot water fogging up the mirror and making the tiles slick and slippery.

As Hermione kissed him, her lips lingering sensually over his, she started to undo the buttons of his shirt. To his surprise, Draco realised he was nervous. He’d never been anxious about sex before – but then, it had never been a big deal before. With Pansy, it had simply been a natural conclusion to their hormonal curiosity and, besides, he’d never particularly cared about what she thought of him.

Crucially, Pansy had always known what he was, so there was never any danger of disappointing her. 

‘You’re shaking,’ Hermione said quietly, concern filling her big brown eyes.

‘I’m used to it being dark,’ Draco said. The fluorescent glare of the bathroom left no room for hiding scars. 

Tentatively, she brushed her hands up under his shirt, never breaking eye contact. Her fingers traced each scar and ridge. Her eyes widened as she fingered the knot of skin in the centre of his chest the size of a snitch. Even though he wanted to baulk at such unmitigated intimacy, Draco pulled his shirt off so she could see the scars properly. Most of them were faint, like pencil drawings, but they got uglier and redder towards his chest.

‘You were cursed,’ she whispered, whitening. The pain on her face took some of his own away, as though she were sharing it, siphoning off the worst of it for him.

‘Well, Potter more than made up for it by saving my life,’ Draco said with an attempt at a smile.

Hermione bit down on her lip. ‘I forgot that Harry used Sectumpsempra on you. At the time I didn’t realise the effects would be so lasting – not until I saw it being used on George.’

‘It needs to be treated straightaway,’ Draco said. ‘I’m lucky Snape was quick enough to stop any scarring on my face.’ He smirked. ‘That would have been a tragedy for witches everywhere.’

She didn’t smile but continued inspecting his upper body, her soft, small fingers ghosting along his collarbone, circling his shoulders. 

He froze. Her hand had reached his left forearm, rubbing the faded Dark Mark. He was amazed that her expression showed curiosity rather than revulsion for it. She lifted his arm to see it better, seeming to study it.

‘What was going through your mind?’ Her voice held no judgement.

‘I wanted to make my family proud. I wanted to do something to be proud of myself. Something impressive. I wanted to be important, to be taken seriously. I wanted to be like my father.’

They were childish desires and he felt ashamed of them but Hermione hugged him fiercely, forgivingly. 

He felt himself melt into the hug, savouring her slight frame pressing against his. 

Bit by bit they undressed each other, exploring the plains and landscapes of their skin. Draco spread his fingers over her belly, marvelling at the contrast in skin colour, circling the soft flesh with the pads of his thumbs.

‘You’re-‘ Draco started, searching for a word that would do her justice. She was leaning back, fingers curled around the lip of the bath, wearing nothing but her knickers. Slightly shy, she was looking at him with parted lips and fire in her eyes. 

‘Lovely. Just lovely,’ he said, kissing her until his blood was at a boil.

‘Let’s get in the bath,’ she said, shimmying out of her underwear.

Draco groaned as he sunk into the scalding water. It felt sinfully good, even without the naked lady leaning on his chest.

‘Were the bubbles really necessary, though?’ Draco asked between nibbling his way up the back of her neck.

‘You don’t like them?’

‘They’re blocking my view.’

She chuckled naughtily. ‘Imagine you’re blind. See with your hands.’

He took her advice, trailing his hands down from her throat and along her chest, exploring her as she had done him earlier.

She let out a small sigh. ‘What can you see?’

He closed his eyes and let his fingertips paint a picture. ‘I see two breasts – they’re small and very firm, like fruit ripe to be bitten – and two nipples – they’re hard,’ he growled, running his hand over them quickly but lightly enough to keep her frustrated.

‘You’re doing that on purpose,’ Hermione said, arching. His erection twitched against her lower back, something she must have felt.

One hand stayed on her chest while he let the other travel south, caressing the gentle flare of her hips, the dip of her navel, the downy curls between her legs. 

‘Look what I’ve found,’ he whispered, stroking between her legs. ‘Looks like the Chamber of Secrets really is in the bathroom.’

‘Don’t call it that,’ Hermione said, but she was laughing, shaking uncontrollably against him. ‘And I’m not going to call your cock ‘the basilisk’, if that’s what you were hoping!’

Draco snorted with laughter. ‘I hadn’t thought of that one!’

He bit down on her shoulder and slid a finger inside her. With a soft hum of contentment, she slid her arm behind her and wrapped it around his erection. As her skilful fingers danced up his length, he felt the tension build in his groin and he bit down harder on her, nearly breaking the skin.

‘Add another finger, please,’ she pleaded, bucking her hips slightly in her earnestness. He complied, fluttering two fingers inside her while his thumb circled the bundle of nerves on the outside. She let out a strangled gasp, her eyes squeezing shut and wriggling like an eel.

‘Remind me to thank whoever taught you to do that,’ she moaned, gripping him more tightly.

Any intention Draco might have had of lasting evaporated from his mind as Hermione picked up the pace and twisted her head back to kiss him. This time, she kissed him with pure desperation, her tongue pushing through his lips aggressively. 

He came hard, holding onto her for dear life. 

Eager for her to join him in oblivion, he probed more deeply inside her, carefully reading her body and learning what she liked. He listened to her laboured breath, watched the nuances of her expression, felt the way her body went rigid and relaxed until he found the exact right place. She was not especially noisy when she climaxed, but from her scrunched up expression and the pulsating he could feel against his fingers he thought it was a strong one.

Afterwards, they lay dazed until the cooling water chased them out.

It was only when Hermione started to pull herself away from him that he realised how reluctant he was to let her go. How much he enjoyed simply holding her.

She smiled at him and pulled a fluffy towel around his shoulders, rubbing him dry with tenderness in her smile.

* * *

Potter was already waiting for them in the chic East London gastropub. Draco was glad to note the lack of Weasleys.

Hermione rushed over as soon as she saw Potter and threw her arms around him. Draco walked up more reservedly and thought a curt nod was welcome enough.

‘You could have told me who you were first!’ Potter told Hermione. ‘I got a bit of a fright when some random woman started to hug me.’

‘Of course, silly me!’ Hermione said, having forgotten her disguise.

Potter waited until the server had come to take drink orders off Draco and Hermione before turning serious.

‘They’ve got practically the whole Ministry after you two,’ Potter said. ‘Hermione, they even brought your parents in for questioning.’

Draco grabbed her hand under the table and held on tight. 

‘But my dad’s still sick,’ Hermione said in a small voice. ‘He shouldn’t be put through stress like that.’

Potter nodded sympathetically. ‘I think they’re going to leave them alone now. I mean, it was pretty clear they didn’t know anything.’

‘Except now they now I’m on the run from the law,’ Hermione said, frantic with worry. ‘They didn’t need this on top of everything else I’ve put them through.’

Draco felt sick with guilt. Hermione wouldn’t be going through any of this if she hadn’t chosen to help him.

‘What about my parents?’ Draco asked, dreading the answer.

‘They’re under house arrest,’ Potter said. ‘They’re being taken in for questioning on Wednesday.’

Draco nodded, thinking it could be worse and trying not to think of the fact that there was still time for it to get plenty worse.

‘I really think the key to clearing your name, Malfoy, is to find out who wants this book,’ Potter continued.

‘The only person who knows that is Nott,’ Draco said. ‘And he couldn’t tell us if he wanted to.’ He struggled to sift through his memory for something useful to add. ‘His aunt said he was trying to get a job in the Department of Mysteries. It sounded like he had a friend there. Maybe they would know something.’

Potter nodded slowly. ‘It’s worth asking. I’ll have to be subtle, but maybe I can find out who Nott was friendly with.’

Draco didn’t think he’d ever get used to being civil with Potter. It seemed an overall unnatural state of affairs, but a necessary one. After all, if their lives ever did return to normal, his relationship with Hermione meant he would probably have to spend time with Potter.

* * * *

Hermione woke Draco up with a shake. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he yawned.

‘Regan’s not back?’

‘Huh?’

They’d been watching a film and Draco had obviously dozed off. Pulling himself up, he noticed the sunlight streaming in.

‘You’ve been up all night?’ he asked Hermione. She nodded.

‘She should have been back around midnight. She said she would.’

There might be a thousand reasons why Regan had stayed out. She could have met up with friends or been called back into work, but Hermione shook her head at the suggestions.

‘She would have sent me a text message,’ Hermione said firmly, staring at the screen of the phone in her hand. 

When Regan didn’t appear all day, Hermione risked phoning her aunt. Draco sat next to Hermione and overheard Hermione’s Aunt Portia’s frightened voice over the phone. Regan had been attacked at work and dragged off.


	26. Chapter 26

Police were still milling about the hospital; Hermione held her breath as she passed one in the corridor, even though she was in disguise. At the front desk, under the flicker of sickly neon, she tried out a nervous lie. Untruths had never been her forte.

‘Excuse me, I’m a reporter with “The Mancunion”,’ Hermione said, trying to channel the energy of Rita Skeeter. ‘I’m doing a piece on that doctor who was attacked here the other night.’

The receptionist blinked coolly at Hermione and said the hospital wasn’t talking to the press about the matter. Deflated, Hermione gave the woman a watery smile and walked away.

‘Was there even any point us coming down here?’ Hermione asked Draco, sinking down into a chair. The waiting room was overflowing with high-fevered children and nasty cuts – the sort of things a wizard could heal in a trice. ‘I don’t know where to start!’

Battling with her guilt was a sense of shame. After all this time, she should have learnt how to stop her emotions from clouding her usually excellent logic, but it was proving a particularly hard lesson to learn.

Draco spoke quietly – she had to strain to hear him over the din of crying and shouting.

‘Regan was working in lab N7,’ he said. ‘It’s on the third floor.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Legilimency. The receptionist thought about the room when you were talking to her. What?’ He asked defensively

Hermione hadn’t been able to help looking at him reproachfully As useful as this information undoubtedly was, the method of extraction didn’t sit well with her. Legilimency sat uneasily on the border of dark magic and, more distressingly, felt too much like a violation to Hermione.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Hermione pointed out.

Draco looked perplexed and a little offended. ‘You have a problem with using Legilimency? But it didn’t harm her in any way.’

Hermione closed her eyes and shook her head. Now was not the time to argue over ethics. 

The lab looked untouched apart from a broken vial on the floor and the yards of strident police tape. 

Hermione pulled out her wand. ‘Specialis Revelio,’ she said hopefully, waiting for something magical to appear. Nothing did.

‘Er, Hermione?’ Draco said, nudging her, and gesturing behind her.

On the white wall, large writing faded in.

_Bring the book to King’s Cross on Sunday_

There was no ‘or else’ – there didn’t need to be.

‘Well, there’s our ransom note,’ Draco murmured, scowling at the dark, curly writing.

‘Four days,’ Hermione said, more to herself. There was no question in her mind about handing over the book. She would have given a thousand dark books for her cousin to remain unharmed.

‘We’ll figure something out by then,’ Draco said, putting a reassuring hand on her waist.

‘Figure something out?’ Hermione repeated, staring at him. What was there to figure out? Obviously, they were going to do as the note said. Draco couldn’t possibly be suggesting that they put Regan’s life in further danger by not complying with the terms that some psycho had thought up. Not after he had seen first hand what had happened to Nott.

‘Figure out a way to help Regan,’ Draco clarified. ‘Who knows if the kidnapper will even keep their word. If we find out their identity, we’ll have the upper hand.’ He glanced about the room with forced optimism. ‘Maybe there are clues here. The Muggle law enforcers have been, but would they know what to look for?’

Almost certainly not, Hermione had to concede. Even if magical evidence had been left behind and the police perceived it, they might have dismissed it out of hand from pure ignorance. With this in mind, she and Draco set about giving the room a thorough going over in the hopes they would find something that the police had missed.

‘Hermione, doesn’t this belong to Regan?’ Draco asked, straightening up from groping under the metal shelves. He held out a mobile phone.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Hermione said excitedly, taking it and examining it. ‘I mean, someone else could have the same one but it’s the right model and I don’t think they’re that common! This is great!’

‘Why is it great? How does the fact that she left her phone help us?’ Draco asked sceptically. 

Hermione reminded herself to slow down. Draco might have been generally quicker on the uptake than Harry, and certainly more so than Ron, but not many people could get from A to Z as quickly as she could.

‘She didn’t leave it here. She would have kept in her bag or her pocket. Probably her pocket, since she must have got to it quickly. For it to have been under there, she probably kicked it under. She didn’t want her kidnapper to take it – she wanted it found, by the police or by us.’

Draco nodded, keeping up. ‘So the phone holds some sort of clue for us to follow? But what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hermione said. Her heart started to sink again and she cursed herself for not staying more up to date with Muggle technology. 

‘Wait,’ Draco said. ‘Didn’t Regan say this was a new type of phone with a camera?’

Hermione could have kissed him. She did in fact kiss him, gripping briefly at the back of his neck. Of course! And she probably hadn’t needed to be that careful about snapping shots – a wizard wouldn’t have realised the phone could take photos.

It took Hermione a few shaky tries to find the photo album.

‘They’re a bit blurry,’ Draco said, squinting over Hermione’s shoulder.

Most of them were. Regan had obviously taken as many as she could in quick succession and camera phone technology still clearly left much to be desired. There was only one photo which clearly showed the outline of a man, but the image was nowhere near sharp enough to tell who it might be.

‘ _Enfocare_ ,’ Draco muttered, tapping the screen gently with his wand.

Instantly, the picture became crystal clear. 

‘I’ve seen him before!’ Draco said. ‘He works at the Ministry, doesn’t he? In the Department of Mysteries!’

Hermione nodded, a little stunned. ‘It’s Saul Croaker.’ 

Hermione struggled back to remember the handful of times she had spoken to Croaker. In truth, she hadn’t paid him much attention, having been too preoccupied with trying to figure out Qabbilar. Croaker had just seemed like a typical Ministry employee: officious, humourless and profoundly forgettable.

Hermione’s first instinct was to let Kingsley know everything, but then she remembered the fiasco that was the trial. If Kingsley had not given the order that Draco be found guilty by any means possible, he had certainly condoned it.

‘Kingsley will listen to Harry,’ Hermione said aloud. ‘If Harry tells him about this – better, if he can get solid evidence against Croaker – then I’m sure Kingsley will listen. Croaker will be arrested.’

Draco nodded, but something seemed to be bothering him. He leant back against the high worktop and raked a hand through his hair.

‘But how can we get in touch with Potter? A safe way? Because last time we had contact with him, Regan went missing.’

Hermione realised what he was talking about. It seemed very likely that Croaker had intercepted the letter Templeton had been carrying – it would have been a quick way to find out where she and Draco were staying and alerted him to Regan’s existence.

‘No owls,’ Hermione said, nodding. ‘I’ll send him a message with my patronus.’

Hermione glanced back at the wall, committing the short message to memory before waving her wand again, letting the words disappear. What they didn’t need right now was for a well-meaning police officer to get involved and possibly hurt.


	27. Chapter 27

It was the second time that week that Ron had failed to give his full attention to an inferius; Harry caught sight of Ron falling out of the corner of his eye and whipped around, lightning fast, sending his stag cantering in Ron’s direction. The inferius turned its gaunt face upwards and snarled, its razor sharp teeth unhooking from Ron’s leg. The patronus might not have been as effective as fire but it had the advantage of not harming Ron and, after a moment’s hesitation, the foul creature retreated, slinking into the shadows. For a second, Harry considered going after it but decided against it when he saw the state of Ron’s leg.

‘That needs to be sorted out,’ Harry said, hovering his lighted wand over the ruined skin on Ron’s calf. ‘Come on, let’s call it a day and we’ll finish the job tomorrow.’

Ron gave a quick nod and looked away. Harry couldn’t see his face well in the gloom but he knew it would be red with humiliation. He’d made a rookie mistake, the sort of mistake he should have stopped making ages ago. This wasn’t the time to confront the issue, not when blood was flowing freely from Ron’s leg, but Harry would have to talk about it with him later, as reluctant as he was to further his friend’s embarrassment.

‘Come on then,’ Harry said bracingly, hoisting Ron up.

St Mungo’s was as busy as ever but Aurors always seemed to get seen to remarkably quickly, something for which Harry was grateful as he sat in the waiting room. 

‘You didn’t have to wait,’ Ron said sheepishly as he emerged from the healer’s office, as good as new.

Harry shrugged. ‘Didn’t fancy hurrying back to all that paperwork.’

It wasn’t that Ron’s lapses in concentration and silly mistakes were an inconvenience to Harry (although they were)or that they seemed unprofessional (although they did), it was the fact that they were downright dangerous. 

Ron stopped walking as soon as they were outside and gave Harry a nervous sideways glance. ‘Are you going to tell Robards that I messed up?’

Harry snorted. ‘Would I do that?’ he asked, slightly irritated. ‘But since we’re on the subjects, what’s going on with you? Really?’ he added emphatically before the words ‘nothing’ could come out of Ron’s mouth.

Ron shrugged and shuffled and kept his eyes on the ground, his face colouring. ‘I miss her.’

‘Oh,’ Harry said awkwardly.

‘I’m trying to focus on the job and stuff but then I’ll suddenly think of her out of nowhere and…’ he waved his arm uselessly.

They didn’t have the sort of friendship that would let them go into more detail, but they didn’t need it. Ron didn’t need to tell Harry that Hermione’s absence seared a hole in his chest because he’d been through the same thing when he’d had to end things with Ginny.

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,’ Harry said.

Ron smiled faintly. ‘My sister hasn’t got you on a tight enough rein yet, then?’

The Leaky Cauldron was the right kind of busy where it was loud enough not to be overheard but not so loud that they had to shout at each other. The news on everyone’s lips was Malfoy’s flight from justice and almost everyone seemed to know that Hermione had gone with him. Harry wished people would be more subtle when giving Ron sideways looks of great pity and that Hannah Abbot hadn’t patted his hand and said ‘there, there’ in quite such a soothing tone.

Ron stared into his drink.

‘I would take her back. Even now. I said I wouldn’t but I lied.’

Harry’s innards squirmed and he wished Ron could have waited until they got a few drinks in before getting into it.

‘I mean it’s just a matter of time before he says something or does something, you know, something Malfoyish. Calls her a you-know-what or says her parents are no more than barnyard animals.’

Harry couldn’t be so sure. He hadn’t seen much of Malfoy recently, but the ex-Death Eating Slytherin did seem to be trying genuinely hard to be decent. He remembered seeing him at Phoenix months ago and there had been no trace of the old contempt or arrogance in his bearing.

‘Have you been in touch with them?’ Ron asked.

Harry hesitated. ‘Yes, we’ve been owling. And we met up. You know I’ve been investigating Malfoy’s trial, so I had to let them know what I’d found out.’

Ron nodded glumly. ‘And how did she seem when you saw her?’

‘Well, stressed, obviously, but ok.’ He left out the bit where she and Malfoy seemed to be constantly unconsciously touching each other.

Most nights Ginny was training until late and didn’t get home until well after nightfall, windswept and often soaked to the bone, so it was a welcome treat for Harry to find her curled up next to the fireplace, reading.

‘What happened, did Gwennog get struck by lightning?’ Harry asked, sliding one of Ginny’s feet from underneath her so he could massage it. She groaned in appreciation.

‘Next best thing – she’s got a nasty bout of the flu, her healer told her to stay in bed if she wants to be better for the game next week. How was Ron today? Did he make a prat out of himself again?’

‘Pretty much,’ Harry admitted, circling the arch of her foot with his thumb. ‘He lost concentration and got himself bitten by an inferius.’

Ginny clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not trying to cast aspersions, but is this really the career for him? I’m sure he’s more than capable ninety-five per cent of the time but – well – none of us want to see him get hurt and you can’t always watch his back.’

To acknowledge that she had a point would have been a betrayal, but it echoed what he had been wondering the past couple of weeks.

‘I know George would love for him to go full-time in the shop,’ Ginny continued thoughtfully.

‘Don’t say that to Ron,’ Harry warned.

Ginny smirked at him. ‘I’m not completely stupid, Mr Potter. It needs to come from someone other than his interfering little sister.’

Harry flooed over to Honey and Dragonfire for a bottle of wine while Ginny started cooking. Although she didn’t have Harry’s skill in the kitchen department, she more than made up for it with love and enthusiasm; Harry could never bear to disappoint her hopeful optimism as she watched him take the first bite, even if it wasn’t exactly delicious.

‘Mmm,’ Harry declared, chewing on his gristly meatball.

Ginny laughed. ‘You’re too polite for your own good.’

She took a bite herself but Harry didn’t get to hear what she thought of it. At that moment, a large silvery otter glided serenely through the open window.

 _‘Don’t send Templeton again. We’re being watched. Saul Croaker has kidnapped by cousin and is holding her ransom for the book,’_ the otter said anxiously in Hermione’s voice before giving a playful little twirl and fading to smoke.

Ginny’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. ‘Croaker? But he’s worked for the Ministry for years!’

Harry struggled for a moment to remember exactly who Croaker was, so unremarkable was the man. 

‘I need to tell Kingsley about this,’ Harry said, standing up. ‘This can’t wait until morning.’

Ginny nodded in agreement.

 

* * * *

Kingsley’s house was a tall, slender, slightly woeful-looking typical which Harry had come to notice were quite popular with London wizards. It had probably been in the family for countless generations but inside had a airy, modern feel to it with varnished wooden floors and modern art on the walls

‘What brings you here so late, Harry?’ Kingsley asked as he led Harry into the living room. His daughter, a girl of around fifteen, gave Harry a curious look as they passed each other in the hall but she said nothing.

‘Saul Croaker is the one that wants the Grimoire,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t know if he actually stole it, but he’s behind it all.’

He stopped himself from saying that Croaker was blackmailing Draco and Hermione into giving him the book because that would mean admitting that they had it and he wasn’t sure if Kingsley could be trusted with that information. The thought saddened him that this intrinsically noble man might have been warped by politics in the same way his predecessors had been.

Kingsley must have sensed this because he looked a little sorrowful himself.

‘Why don’t you tell me the truth, Harry? All of it.’

‘You didn’t believe the truth when it came from Malfoy – or even Hermione,’ Harry pointed out.

‘I admit to having my reservations about Malfoy, which he has done little to dispel,’ Kingsley said. ‘And whilst I trust Hermione-’ He hesitated. ‘Neville told me how much time they were spending together. I was afraid her judgement was being clouded by her growing romantic feeling towards him.’

Harry shook his head. ‘But you knew Malfoy wasn’t guilty. The evidence was there.’

‘I knew that Malfoy couldn’t have been the only guilty one,’ Kingsley corrected. ‘But I also knew that he was to some extent involved. Have you seen what happened to his friend Nott?’

Harry shook his head. ‘The healers wouldn’t let me close. They said it was too dangerous.’

Kingsley nodded heavily and stood up. He walked over to a cabinet and came back with a bottle of golden-coloured firewhisky. He offered Harry a glass before filling his own. Harry noticed for the first time how old Kingsley looked. He seemed to have aged a decade in the past few years.

‘I have seen Nott. The healers advised against it but they couldn’t stop me. I wish I had heeded their advice. He no longer seems human. He looks-‘ Kingsley paused here, tilting his head to one side with philosophical curiosity. ‘He looks a little like an inferius, even though the healers assure me he is still technically alive. And a little like a banshee. But the overpowering impression I got from him was that of fear and hopelessness. I couldn’t get near him without remembering the war and losing my wife – and all the lesser horrors that haunt me. Then there was his breath – rattling – and he stank of rot and decay.’

Harry’s heart was thundering in his chest. Kingsley’s description evoked something he had hated since he was thirteen.

‘Do you think he’s becoming a Dementor?’ Harry asked.

Kingsley sighed. ‘The healers say it’s impossible. But they don’t know themselves how the first Dementors came to be. For all we know, they were human once.’

Such a revolting thought shook Harry to the core.

‘Did you arrest Malfoy to protect him?’ Harry asked. 

‘Partially,’ Kingsley said. ‘While I certainly don’t wish Malfoy to share his friend’s fate, that was not my only motivation in advising the Wizengamot to find him guilty. I hoped by taking accomplices out of the picture, it would force the true culprit to reveal themselves.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘And I take it you know who that is?’

‘Croaker,’ Harry said. ‘He’s blackmailing Hermione and Malfoy.’


	28. Chapter 28

Draco sat sifting through the information Potter had brought them that morning while, at his side, Hermione was leafing through more bits of parchment, her eyes racing down the page. She looked tense; she’d been tense ever since they’d been owled Kinglsey’s order to ignore the instructions on the ransom note and do nothing. That was all his letter had contained: terse instructions without a whisper of an apology. The Ministry-protected owl had stayed in the flat in case they needed to contact the Ministry again. The elegant tawny was currently preening itself on the windowsill, occasionally blinking at Draco with its huge orange eyes.

Fortunately, Potter had been more forthcoming than Kingsley and, now that they weren’t wanted criminals, they could connect Regan’s fireplace to the floo network.

‘But don’t just walk out into Diagon Alley,’ Potter had warned. ‘Croaker still needs to think we’re looking for you. We don’t want to tip him off about what’s going on.’

Potter’s visit had been brief but useful: he’d left them a copy of all the background the Ministry had on Croaker and transcripts of Qabbilar’s confession.

Reading through Croaker’s history was mind-numbingly boring. He had never done anything remotely interesting or rebellious. He was born the third of five children to Paul Croaker, a half-blood wizard, and Jessica Carr, a Muggleborn witch. He had been a Ravenclaw prefect but not head boy. His OWLS and NEWTS had been very good, but not extraordinary. He’d been considered a rather quiet student by his teachers, but not excessively so, shy but not friendless. He had joined the Ministry straight from school, working for five years in the Department of Magical Transportation before an opening came up on the lowest rung of the Department of Mysteries. He had been engaged to a fellow Ravenclaw alumnus for several years but their relationship had apparently fizzled out and she was now married to someone else. He was described by the Head of Department and diligent, reliable and assiduous. 

‘I’ve read this about twelve times and it’s not going in,’ Hermione said, massaging her temples. ‘I never have that problem.’

Draco nodded and put his hand on hers. ‘We’ll get her back.’

Hermione’s laugh rang hollow. ‘Really? Do you trust the Ministry?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ Draco said.

‘I wish they could just arrest him,’ Hermione said; Draco didn’t point out it was the sixth time she had made such a wish out loud. Nor did he point out that Croaker had owled in sick for most of the week, doubtlessly busy with keeping Regan captive. None of that would have helped.

As Sunday drew closer, Hermione became more and more distressed.

‘The Ministry are going to mess up, I can feel it,’ Hermione said, pacing the small flat. Draco could do nothing to placate her.

‘I’m sure-’ Draco started.

‘You’re sure of nothing!’ Hermione snapped, raking her hands through her hair. ‘Neither of us are!’

‘I’m just trying to help,’ Draco said coldly.

‘Well, you’re not!’ She collapsed onto the sofa and twisted at the hem of her cardigan.

That night, she didn’t come to bed. They’d been sleeping together in the guest bedroom, although nothing intimate had happened between them since that time in the bath, except for holding each other and dozing off gently entwined. As much as Draco had burned with the desire to ravage every part of her body, the look of poignant worry had never left her eyes and he hadn’t wanted their first time together to be like that.

At two in the morning, Draco went back out onto the living room. Hermione was still dressed, still reading through all the parchment Harry had brought them on Croaker.

‘He grew up in Wiltshire, in Gillingham,’ Hermione said as she heard Draco approach, although she didn’t look up. An atlas was open on her lap. ‘That’s only a couple of miles from Sedgehill. Did you ever meet him?’

‘No,’ Draco said. ‘There are a few wizarding families in Gillingham but they weren’t…’ He trailed off but Hermione’s raised eyebrow bid him continue. ‘They weren’t the sort of families we would have associated with.’

Hermione snorted. ‘So they weren’t rich and pureblood!’

‘Basically,’ Draco said.

Hermione’s shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry for taking this out on you. You don’t deserve to have me snapping at you.’

Draco couldn’t stay angry at her. ‘I understand. I’m not thrilled with it, but I understand.’

Hermione closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘I’m going to the station tomorrow.’

Draco nodded. Although he’d hoped otherwise, he’d been expecting that sort of thing. She’d been friends with Potter for far too long not to have picked up that sort of attitude. 

‘I know. And I know I’m going with you,’ Draco said.

She smiled, just a little bit, looking exhausted. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

Their note hadn’t specified a time, so they were at the station at the break of dawn. It was already packed to bursting with early morning commuters grumbling to themselves and fiddling with their tickets and umbrellas.

Disguised, they sat on a bench on platform ten with newspapers and cups of tea in cardboard sleeves.

‘There are Aurors everywhere,’ Hermione said under her breath as she pretended to read about a teaching strike.

Draco looked around as nonchalantly as he could but couldn’t pick out any recognisable faces amongst the busy Muggles. Of course, they would be in disguise.

‘That skinny man with a receding hairline looking at postcards? I’m pretty sure that’s Will Peters. He stands the same way and he keeps pulling on his left earlobe the way Peters does. The lady in the blue coat standing by the timetable – that’s Jilly Jacobs. Jacobs always wears that brooch for good luck. Robards is the elderly man nearly opposite us who keeps checking his watch. He’s transfigured himself pretty well, but he’s forgotten to change his widow’s peak. It’s exactly the same.’

‘Coincidence?’ Draco suggested. He peered furtively at the elderly gentleman – the man was hunching quite convincingly and his hands shook when he took his ticket out of his pocket to check the time on it.

‘Might have been, but I saw his mouth move as he walked behind Jacobs and she reacted. Definitely an Auror. Near the toilets, see the bloke with the headphones in, leaning against the wall? Neville. I’d recognise that look of concentration anywhere.’

Draco almost burst out laughing. It was exactly the same look he had when he was trying very badly not to mess up a potion.

He glanced over at Hermione. Physically, no one would be able to tell it was her: her hair, after copious amounts of Sleekeazy potion, was soft and silky, dyed deep burgundy and cut short. She’d turned her warm brown eyes green and meticulously changed every part of her face: nose, eyebrows, cheekbones, chin, ears and jaw had all been altered. Draco had undergone a similar transformation. He wondered if it would be enough or if someone as eagle-eyed as Hermione would spot them for who they really were from their mannerisms and expressions.

‘This is good,’ Draco said encouragingly. ‘As soon as Croaker turns up, they’ll be on him.’

Hermione nodded but didn’t look convinced. ‘The Aurors will probably realise it’s us if we’re here too long. Then again, what are they going to do about it? Kingsley’ll be exasperated we didn’t obey orders but as long as everything works out alright in the end, he won’t make a fuss.’

They waited for hours. Just before midday, Draco nearly jumped out of his skin when Potter’s voice said conversationally in his ear: ‘You two were meant to stay home, you know.’

Hermione dropped her cold cup of tea all over herself in fright. As the surrounding Muggles were giving her a curious look, she managed an airy laugh. ‘Goodness me, I do hate spiders!’ she said, putting her hand to heart. When everyone had gone back to their own business, she hissed at Potter. ‘Merlin’s Beard, Harry, don’t _do_ that to people!’

Potter just chuckled quietly, a disconcerting enough sound, even when it wasn’t detached to Potter’s body.

‘Can’t say I blame you,’ Potter said. ‘I’d never have stayed put myself.’

‘Any sign of Croaker?’ Hermione asked, addressing Draco as she spoke so people wouldn’t think she was mad.

‘Not yet. The Ministry staked out his house last night but it doesn’t look like he’s been there for a while. No one’s seen him since you two went on the run.’

‘Great!” Draco muttered.

The day ticked on and emotions were running high. Draco made eye contact a couple of times with Robards, who must have guessed by now who he was, and the Head Auror was starting to look slightly apprehensive. Next to Draco, Hermione was barely holding it together.

‘He knows! Croaker must know the Aurors are here! Oh God, what’s he going to do to Regan?’

‘Calm down, Hermione,’ Potter said firmly.

From the other side of the platform, hidden behind a train, there was an explosion and Muggles started screaming.

Like lightning, the Aurors reacted and Draco heard the scuff of Potter’s trainers as he sprinted off. Meeting eyes briefly with Hermione, Draco followed behind, squeezing himself through the crowds.

It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on. The station was the busiest it had been all day, impeding Draco’s movement and vision, and it was slow going pushing against the tide of bodies.

Station guards were trying to calm the crowd down while others tried to find out the source of the commotion.

As Draco edged closer to the site of the explosion, he realised the people there seemed more sedate, almost dreamy. He looked around and saw Longbottom and Peters discreetly casting calming charms on people. Robards was crouched on the floor in a blackened crater while Harry, now visible, inspected the huge dent in the train.

‘Doesn’t look like anyone was hurt, just startled,’ Robards said brusquely, straightening up. ‘But this was definitely a magical explosion.’

‘Croaker,’ Draco said. ‘But what would that accomplish.

Potter took his eyes off the train. ‘I’m not sure.’ A look of concern crossed his face as he looked past Draco. ‘Where did Hermione go?’

Draco looked behind him. The crowd was thinning now as so many people had managed to get outside, but to his mounting horror she was nowhere to be seen.


	29. Chapter 29

Hermione’s head was still spinning from the rather violent disapparition. She was lucky, really, not to have splinched herself, given how much she had fought. Croaker’s grip on her wrists was tight, his wand sharp between her shoulder blades.

‘Get off me,’ Hermione hissed at him, struggling frantically.

He frowned at her in annoyance and made a sharp jabbing motion with his wand. Everything went dark.

When she woke up, she was alone. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light creeping through the boarded-up window, she managed to make out the small room she was in, stone-floored with a rough wooden door. She heaved herself up and rattled the handle desperately but it was locked. Turning around, she studied the rest of the room, hoping to find something to use as a weapon. No rusty nails or sharp stones presented themselves, just a neatly-made bed and a few bits of furniture; a floral chamber pot and an ewer of water stood on the bedside table.

Judging from the chinks of sunlight which glowed and dimmed between the planks of wood, two days had passed before the door opened. Hermione had drunk all the water and her thirst was strong enough to distract her from her rumbling stomach. She had spent a good few hours trying to break down the door and prise the boards off the window and her arms ached. She regretted screaming at the top of her voice for so long now that her throat was like sandpaper.

Hermione was sitting on the bed; it was a little soft for her taste but not at all uncomfortable. When the door opened, the bright light from outside dazzled her and her hands instinctively shot up to shield her face.

‘You’ve learnt to be quiet,’ Croaker said, his voice clipped. With only a twinge of irritation, he noted Hermione tensing, readying herself for a fight. ‘I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.’

Rage boiled Hermione’s blood and her thirst and her fatigue were forgotten. Snarling her wrath, she threw herself forward at the stiff, frazzle-haired man who had kidnapped her cousin, who was now looking at her like she was mould in the bathroom or a slow driver in front of him on the road. 

Croaker’s hand shot out and curled around her throat. The annoyance in his eyes sharpened but the fact that it never tipped over into anger was in fact rather frightening. He would have gladly killed her for simply being an inconvenience. Darkness started creeping into the edges of Hermione’s vision and her heart thundered in terror as Croaker’s gripped her with both hands now, frowning.

He let go of her and he sunk to the floor, gasping and shaking.

‘I think you need more time in here to reflect on you behaviour,’ Croaker said delicately before shutting the door.

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she was left alone the second time. She lost track of the sun coming and going through the cracks, her mind caving in on itself as her throat dried up like baked earth. At one point, although she might have been dreaming, Hermione thought she heard Regan scream. And then, although again she might have been dreaming, she heard rain beating on the roof and her body screamed with need. Her head throbbing and clanging with every move, she crawled off the bed and clawed at the boarded-up window with bleeding nails, hoping some moisture might trickle in.

More than once, she thought she was going to die in that room. She thought of Draco. They were at the very beginning of something and it seemed horrifyingly unfair that she wouldn’t find out how far they could have gone. She thought of her parents, who must be so frightened on her behalf. She wondered if Harry and Ginny were trying to find her, and if Ron was helping them.

Although it felt like a thousand years before Croaker opened the door the second time, Hermione later reflected that it could only have been as long as a human being could survive without water.

Croaker stood in the doorway, carrying an oil lamp in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

‘Are you going to try and escape?’ he asked.

Hermione shook her head.

‘Are you going to attack me?’

She gave another weak shake of her head.

Croaker nodded curtly. ‘Good.’

He held out the glass of water and she snatched it greedily from him. Nothing had ever tasted better.

‘ _Incarcerous_ ,’ Croaker muttered, pointing his wand at Hermione’s wrists. ‘Come with me.

Hermione followed him out of the room. She swallowed. She was still thirsty.

‘Where’s Regan?’ she asked softly.

Croaker ignored her question as he led her down a hallway. They seemed to be in a cottage. The window at the top of the stairs showed a snowy meadow.

In the small kitchen, Croaker motioned to the food set out on the table; it was a simple affair of bread, cold slices of ham, a hunk of mild yellow cheese, a couple of small reddish apples and a pot of strongly-brewed tea, but Hermione fell upon it like a demon. Wordlessly, Croaker sat opposite her, his wand between them on the table, and watched her eat. At one point, he got up to throw another log on the roaring fire and brush some cinders back into the grate. He waited until she had eaten all she could before speaking.

‘You didn’t bring the book like I asked. That was incredibly rude.’

Hermione wasn’t quite sure how to take him. In spite of what he’d done, it was difficult to think of him as dangerous with such a peevish tone.

‘Why do you want this book so much?’ Hermione asked.

Croaker clucked his tongue, anger flaring in his cold blue eyes. ‘That hardly concerns you, Miss Granger.’

‘Who am I going to tell?’ Hermione said. ‘I’m guessing we’re pretty far away from anywhere.’

‘I have no time for chatter,’ Croaker said, his fingertips brushing the handle of his wand. Clearly he was thinking of using it. Hermione held her breath and put her hands on her lap, trying to look subdued.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you. I’ll give you the book, I promise. I’ll do anything to make sure Regan’s safe.’ She risked a glance up at him; he was looking at her with great suspicion.

‘Where is it? I take it that it’s no longer in the possession of Mr Malfoy or the Ministry would have flushed it out by now.’

‘We hid it,’ Hermione said.

‘Where?’

Hermione hesitated.

Croaker let out a great sigh of exasperation, stood up and marched out of the room. He came back moments later, dragging Regan by the hair.

‘Get off her!’ Hermione shrieked, standing up quickly, but Croaker simply shoved Regan into Hermione’s arms.

‘Regan, are you ok?’ Hermione asked frantically, pushing her cousin’s hair away to see her face.

‘Mione,’ Regan managed to mumble. Her face was covered with cold sweat and her pupils were huge.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Hermione demanded.

‘A slow-acting poison,’ Croaker said. ‘She has about three hours, I would say. Then again, it might work faster on Muggles. Their physiology is slightly different. Now,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Where is the book?’

‘In the Peak District,’ Hermione said. ‘I’ll show you!’

‘You’ll stay here,’ Croaker said. ‘Tell me where it is and I’ll get it myself. And try and make the directions as clear as possible if you want me to get back in time to give your cousin the antidote.’

Hermione told him exactly where to find it and Croaker strode out of cottage. As soon as he was gone, Hermione grabbed a cool cloth from the sink and started to dab the sweat of Regan’s brow.

‘It’ll be ok, he’ll be back in plenty of time,’ Hermione told Regan. Her voice was shaking, belying her words, but Regan seemed too feverish to tell.

‘My stomach hurts,’ Regan moaned.

‘It’s ok,’ Hermione lied. ‘Wait here a second.’ She tried to make Regan comfortable on the chair and went to look around outside.

Just as she had feared, they were in the middle of nowhere with no one to call for help. They were near the top of a hill with nothing but white open fields and the occasional copse of trees below; judging by the lack of footsteps in the three-foot blanket of snow, Croaker had either disapparated or flown. If she squinted, she thought she could make out a hamlet towards the bottom of the hill but it would take hours to walk there and Regan was in no fit state to be moved. 

Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around herself against the bitter wind and trudged around the side of the house. She came across an unlocked broomshed. The snow around it was disturbed and there was no broom inside, but Hermione made a note to herself that there was probably usually one broom in there.

She hurried back inside to where Regan had almost fallen off her chair.

‘Here, come closer to the fire,’ Hermione said as she felt Regan shivering violently in her arms, although she wasn’t entirely sure if it was the right thing to do. With some difficulty, she pulled the chair and half-carried Regan towards to fireplace.

‘I’m so sorry about all of this,’ Hermione said sadly to her, feeling unbearably helpless. ‘I’ll get us out of here as soon as he cures you, I promise.’ She wondered why she kept making these promises she couldn’t keep. She hadn’t been able to help Draco and now she couldn’t help Regan.

After an hour or so, Regan fell into a deep sleep. Hermione kept checking her pulse every couple of minutes and panicking as it became weaker and weaker. Regan’s lips had turned blue before Croaker came back, her breaths rasping and painful.

The front door swung open, letting in a gust of frigid wind, and Croaker pulled off his travelling coat, shaking the snow loose before setting it to dry in front of the fire. He was cradling the Grimoire in his arms like it was his firstborn son.

‘The antidote!” Hermione reminded him, her voice unnaturally shrill. 

‘Oh!’ Croaker said in surprise. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. He looked over at Regan’s dying body with a detached interest and then shrugged. From an inner pocket in his robes he pulled out a small vial of iridescent bluish liquid and handed it over.

As soon as Hermione poured the antidote down Regan’s throat, Regan started to cough and colour flooded into her cheeks. Hermione burst into tears and hugged Regan tightly around the neck.

‘If you continue with that god-awful racket, I’ll have you locked up again!’ Croaker snapped, putting his fingers to his temples.

Hermione gulped back her sobs.

‘Will you – will you let us go now?’ Hermione asked tentatively.

‘No, no, I couldn’t do that,’ Croaker said. He sat down in an armchair in the corner, his fingers trailing lightly down the spine of the Grimoire – he kept casting it furtive, greedy glances. ‘You know too much.’

Regan was fully awake now, clutching Hermione’s hand and eyeing Croaker with terror. ‘What are you going to do with us?’ she asked.

Croaker tilted his head to one side pensively. ‘You’ll stay here for now. I may find some use for you yet.’


	30. Chapter 30

Potter was being worse than useless.

‘We need to do something,’ Draco told him through gritted teeth. He’d set up shop in the Auror office and was poring over everything they had on that accursed Croaker.

‘We – by which I mean the Auror Office and definitely not you – are doing everything we can,’ Potter shot back tartly.

‘It’s not enough,’ Draco said. ‘We have to find her!’

An unbearable glimmer of pity flitted across Potter’s face. ‘We will. Believe me when I say I would never let anything happen to her. You’ve got to realise that. But you have to trust that we know what we’re doing.’

It was just like Potter to want to take control of whatever crisis was unfolding and it was highly unfortunate that he now had the authority to do so.

It was at that moment that Weasley decided to show his big, ugly face. He glowered venomously at Draco as he stalked in, gripping a file of loosely bound papers. As much as Draco tried to ignore him completely, he couldn’t help but notice that Weasley looked just as unkempt as he himself probably did: wearing the same clothes three days on the trot, unshaven and with bloodshot eyes.

‘We’ve tracked down Samantha Croaker, his eldest sister,’ Weasley said to Potter. ‘She’s been living in New York but she’s agreed to be interviewed. Neville’s flooing over there shortly.’

‘And the other siblings?’ Potter asked.

Weasley’s gaze flitted briefly over to Draco, as though he was loth to continue in his presence, but he carried on talking. ‘Ruby and John died in the first wizarding war, and we’re still looking for Beth. No one’s heard anything from her since she left school.’

‘That’s strange,’ Draco cut in. ‘The whole family just scattered. What about the parents?’

‘Dead,’ Potter said. ‘Natural causes.’ He shrugged. ‘We haven’t ruled anything out yet, but it might just be a coincidence that the three surviving children drifted apart.’

‘I’m sure,’ Draco said with heavy sarcasm.

‘Like I said, we haven’t ruled anything out,’ Potter said evenly.

‘What about Croaker’s fiancée?’ Draco asked. ‘What was her name? Macmillan?’ Her first name had struck a chord with him, although he couldn’t remember exactly why.

‘Iridessa Macmillan,’ Potter said, glancing quickly down at his notes. ‘Her maiden name was Rosier. I interviewed her myself. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in thirty years and didn’t have much to say about their break-up apart from that they wanted different things. I don’t think she knows anything. I really don’t.’

Draco grasped desperately for straws. ‘There must be someone else, someone who knows something. Anything.’

‘He didn’t have any good friends that we know of,’ Potter said. ‘He was generally fairly well-liked and invited to parties and things, but nobody got close.’

‘Not even Qabbilar?’

Potter shook his head. ‘Qabbilar’s been falling over himself to help us catch Croaker but he doesn’t know much that’s been useful.’

Draco let out a hiss of frustration.

‘You should go home,’ Potter said, more quietly. ‘You need to sleep. And shower. Have you spoken to your parents since the Ministry threw out your conviction?’

He hadn’t. Draco’d been so focussed on just finding Hermione during the past week that he hadn’t stopped to give a thought over how worried they must have been.

‘I’ll let you know if we find out anything new,’ Potter said. ‘I promise.’

* * *

Narcissa was in the drawing room alone, a glass of port on the elegantly carved occasional table next to her. Draco wondered briefly where his father might be as he slinked hesitantly into the room. In the library, most likely, also alone and drinking. 

Narcissa tensed when she saw him, her eyes narrowing.

‘What have you been up to?’ she asked, trying to sound icy but for once failing and allowing a tremble to enter her voice.

‘I was trying to help the Ministry find Hermione,’ Draco said. ‘She’s been kidnapped by Qabbilar – the man who framed me.’

Narcissa didn’t say anything for what seemed like a very long time.

‘How incredibly noble of you,’ she said eventually. She took a long sip of her port. ‘Such a shame you couldn’t tear yourself away for a single second. I’ve been corresponding with the Ministry several times a day since Shacklebolt was good enough to let us know of their unfortunate mistake in finding you guilty. And yet you didn’t come home.’ She stood up and walked slowly over to the mantelpiece, gripping her glass tightly, and stared into the low-burning embers. 

‘I’m sorry, I should-’

Draco’s apology died in his throat as Narcissa looked at him. For a second, there was absolute silence apart from the crackle of flames.

‘I have been so, _so_ worried about you,’ she said in a whisper. She finished her drink and put it on top of the mantelpiece. Seeing the obvious contrition in Draco’s demeanour, she gave a smile. ‘So how _have_ you been? Given the fact that you were sentenced to prison and went on the run and all the rest of it.’

‘Fine, I think,’ Draco said. He sat down on the chair nearest the fire, sinking into the soft crushed velvet. ‘Worried about Hermione – I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her.’

Narcissa’s smile froze on her face. ‘There’s no need to be dramatic, Draco.’

Wondering whether this was the right time to say but then reasoning that he had already hinted at the truth and might as well get it over with, Draco decided to be honest.

‘I think it must be pretty obvious to you by now how I feel about Hermione, Mother,’ Draco said slowly, weighing out his words and studying her reaction. She had been supportive of his decision to save Muggles from the Dementors a few months back, but he wasn’t sure how far her tolerance would stretch.

Narcissa clenched her jaw and started playing with one of her earrings. ‘I suppose it’s natural for young men to want to sow their wild oats. And she’s not unattractive, I’ll give you that. A little feisty, but I daresay you enjoy the challenge.’

‘Don’t talk about her like that!’ Draco said sharply.

Narcissa smiled again, but this time it was wintery and humourless. 

‘Keep your sordid little liaisons, Draco, you are your father’s son, after all. But spare me the lurid details, that’s all I ask you. The less I know about this, the easier I’ll sleep.’

‘This isn’t sordid!” Draco shouted. He’d never shouted at his mother. Ever. ‘I’m crazy about her. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even marry her.’

Narcissa went white. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’

Childishly, spitefully, Draco said: ‘Watch me!’ Moments later, the full meaning of what Narcissa had said hit him.

‘You knew about May,’ Draco said. 

Narcissa pulled her lip back in a revolted sneer. ‘The Muggle girl? Abraxas told me. The day after I married Lucius, Abraxas took me aside and told me to keep an eye on my husband. He’d taken care of Lucius’ first little indiscretion; it was on me to deal with any more.’ Narcissa looked at Draco like she was seeing him for the first time. ‘When did Lucius tell you? I didn’t think you two had those sorts of heart-to-hearts. It’s rather touching,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Only recently,’ Draco said.

‘Put the idea into your head, did her? Told you to have a romp with all the Muggles you like as long as no one finds out? Well, there’s truth in that, as unpleasant as it is for me to accept. Have your fun – but don’t you dare bring that girl to my house.’

Draco opened his mouth furiously but his mother gracefully glided into a different subject. ‘I’d go and speak to your father if I was you. You’ll find him in the library. He’ll be glad to see you, even if he can’t bring himself to show it.’ Her voice was neutral now, casual, but her eyes held a warning.

‘Very well,’ Draco said coldly, bowing his head as he left the room.

As soon as he got into the hall, however, he found he had to sit down. His mother’s disapproval had cut to the quick, as had the contempt she had used to speak to him. He’d spent years seeing the trademark Black sneer of disdain being used on everyone else, but it had been a shock to be one the receiving end of it. Rubbing his temples and pulling himself together in time to see his father, he only hoped that once she got over the initial shock, Narcissa found it in herself to overlook the misfortune of Hermione’s blood status.


	31. Chapter 31

_N.B. Not sure if everyone reading is aware of the geographical variations in the meaning of this word, but ‘tea’ here is used to mean the evening meal, not the drink or afternoon tea. It’s used in some parts of the UK._

If Hermione weren’t being held prisoner, she probably would have recognised the quiet beauty of the place. The cottage, olde-worlde and blanketed with snow, would not have looked out of place on a Christmas card. The rising sun filled the little kitchen, bathing it in a mellow orange light and glinting through the frosty skeletons of trees in the garden.

Hermione’s hands smarted in the icy water. She’d spent the best part of an hour trying to get a fire started to warm it up, but most of the logs stacked up near the hearth were soft and damp. When he was in the room, Croaker would usually start a fire with his wand, but he seemed reluctant to leave them alone in the presence of live flames. In the end, she’d resigned herself to washing the clothes in cold water, her fingers aching as she scrubbed. Even by Muggle standards, keeping the cottage tidy without modern conveniences was hard work, but Croaker maintained that a little manual labour would do Hermione the world of good. No doubt he also thought that having to work such long hours and being so tired afterwards would give her and Regan very little time to plot an escape.

‘I don’t even know how we’re going to dry these,’ Hermione cried out in frustration.

‘I don’t think this place comes with a tumble dryer,’ Regan said in agreement, stopping mopping the floor for a second to massage her wrists. ‘It’s not even connected to the grid.’

‘He’ll have to dry those logs off for us,’ Hermione said. ‘Or get us new ones when he goes out.’

Croaker left the cottage a couple of times a week and was gone for most of the day when he went. The rest of the time, he was holed up in the office downstairs, now and again muttering loudly enough for his voice to be heard on the other side of the door. Sometimes he sounded excited and sometimes angry. Once, he had stormed out of the office in high dudgeon, asking when tea would be ready. When Hermione had told him that the goose would take another hour to cook, he had slapped her hard across the face and strode out of the cottage.

More disturbing than being hit was the fact that Croaker had tried to apologise for it afterwards.

‘I wasn’t angry with you, I was angry with myself,’ Croaker had said. A spasm of indecision flitted over his face before he reached over and patted Hermione’s hand in a farcical imitation of comfort. Hermione knew better than to ask why he was angry with himself.

Cooking was the hardest. The kitchen held no prepared food, only ingredients and a stack of complicated cookbooks. Neither of them had much practice with cooking, so there were a few disasters early on. At the bottom of the garden was a red wooden barn where the animals wintered; Regan had a better way with animals than Hermione and she’d be the one to go out with the slop bucket and the bag of grain to feed them, collect eggs and milk the scruffy nanny goats. After about a fortnight, Croaker complained tersely that he wasn’t a vegetarian, so, steeling herself, Hermione had trudged over to the barn with a cleaver, glad that she hadn’t made friends with them.

When they weren’t cleaning or cooking, she and Regan tried the best they could to carry out maintenance on the cottage. The paint was peeling and most of the furniture was broken. They could do nothing about the cracks in the brickwork without either magic or a Muggle builder at hand, but they aired out the rooms which had mould and replaced the curtains with the fresh material Croaker had brought back.

That evening, Croaker was in high spirits. Roast pork was a favourite of his, and he gushed over its succulence between each mouthful.

‘This is a delightful little home, isn’t it?’ he said loudly. He took a deep swig of blackberry wine. In a fit of largesse, he had poured glasses for Hermione and Regan, which sat untouched on the table.

Hermione and Regan glanced at each other.

‘It’s pretty,’ Regan said. ‘I like the view.’

‘A fine view, a very fine view,’ Croaker mused. ‘I spent five years looking for the perfect abode. This one used to belong to a Muggle, just like yourself, Miss Granger,’ he said with a nod to Regan. ‘A farmer. He said the lands and the house had been in his family for five generations. He still hoped that one of his sons might come back from the mainland and take it over. I tried to convince him to sell it to me. I offered far more than what it was worth.’ He looked angry all of a sudden. ‘I was generous – more than generous!’

Hermione, realising she had been holding her breath, let it out slowly.

‘I got it for her because I loved her. This was the sort of place where Iridessa and I would finally be able to start our own family.’ His expression hardened. ‘That ungrateful slut.’

Regan flinched involuntarily, drawing Croaker’s attention.

‘I’ve poured you wine,’ Croaker said curtly. ‘Aren’t you going to drink it?’

They both reached for their glasses and took a sip but Hermione would not for the life of her been able to comment on its taste. 

‘I don’t have to give you free rein of the house, you know,’ Croaker said. He was still shaking with repressed anger. ‘Many would have kept you bound and gagged. And I don’t really need both of you alive, have you thought about that?’ His hand twitched excitedly, as though it were imagining itself around one of their necks. ‘But I thought to be kind to you. I’ve given you access to good food, the company of each other, tasks so that time won’t weigh too heavily on your hands. And you won’t even drink my _damned wine!_ ’ He slammed his palm onto the table and closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

‘We’re sorry,’ Hermione said in a small voice. ‘We are grateful, truly.’

Croaker was staring at his hand with curiosity, as though he had forgotten how it had come to be on the table.

Regan cleared the table while Hermione went to fetch dessert. One thing they had always managed to make well was almond cake, something they had made together often with their grandmother, even though Hermione had been more of a spoon-licker than a baker at the time. They had learnt, however, that Croaker had a bit of a sweet tooth, and the evenings always went better if he had a fat slice of cake and a cup of cocoa after tea. As always, he waved his wand lazily over it to check for poison before taking a bite.

Before going to bed, Croaker liked to have some sort of game or activity. Sometimes they played cards. At first, the girls had let him win but he’s exploded with fury when he realised what they were doing, snatching Regan up by the scruff and dragging her over to the hearth, making her promise to play fairly from then on under the threat of having her face shoved into the fire. After that, they had played to the best of their ability. Other nights, he would ask them to perform a song. Regan’s unpractised fingers would trip over the keys of the old piano while Hermione tried to remember the words of songs from her childhood. Sometimes, Croaker just wanted to talk. He reminisced about summer adventures he had had as a boy and seemed fascinated by the stories he pulled out of Hermione and Regan, asking for details about their grandmother or their other cousins or the rules of the Muggle games they used to play. It was with deep resentment that Hermione gave these details over, feeling somehow violated by his inspection of their memories.

That night, after a quick game of ‘Go Fish’ he asked whether either of them could dance.

‘Er, I did a little ballet when I was small,’ Regan said. ‘I mean, I was the worst in the class…’ she trailed off.

‘Nonsense,’ Croaker said, his eyes lighting up. ‘Show me!’ He jabbed his wand in the direction of the gramophone and the haunting notes of Tchaikovsky filled the room. Looking uncomfortable, Regan raised her arms above her head and showcased a few ungainly, floaty sequences. When she gave a small twirl on the balls of her feet, Croaker clapped with undue enthusiasm. 

‘Brava, my dear!’ he said. He reached out and touched her cheek gently. Regan kept her expression neutral, her eyes downcast, as his thumb brushed under her jaw. 

‘He’s completely unstable,’ Regan whispered from her bed in the dark. They always waited a long time before talking in case Croaker was listening.

‘I know.’

‘And there’s no way to escape here? You haven’t thought of anything?’

Hermione heaved a great sigh of sadness. Regan, like most Muggles, could never quite grasp the limitations of magic. ‘Not without a wand. I can’t disapparate – even if I had a wand, this place must have some sort of charm to stop it, otherwise Croaker would do so instead of flying. And there’s a powerful shield charm around the land – we can’t go any further that the bottom of the garden, it feels like walking into a brick wall. Croaker is extremely careful with his wand. I’ve looked for any opportunity to grab it off him but he’s too cautious.’

‘What about now?’ Regan asked. ‘He’s asleep!’

‘He’ll have an alarm set on the door. He’d be an idiot not to. Insane as he is, he’s not stupid,’ Hermione said bitterly.

The next morning, Croaker didn’t retreat to his office as usual but went out into the garden, which by now was mostly free of snow. He came back with bunches of daffodils and lilacs and arranged them tenderly in a vase on the table. He called Hermione over from plucking the chicken and Regan from kneading dough to have a look.

‘Do you know what the date is?’ Croaker asked Hermione. She shook her head. ‘The twentieth of March – the first day of spring. It’s always been my favourite season. It has such a lot of potential.’ 

He smiled to himself as his fingers circled the petals.


	32. Chapter 32

Ron had never coped well with solitude. Growing up in a house where silence was a rare and valuable commodity had turned him into an adult who was uncomfortable in his own company. Silence was a sepulchral clang that pressed into his ears, as cold and velvety as a world full of snow. Besides, the emptier his apartment was, the more he saw what should have been there; her absence had a tangible quality to it.

Months had passed and all their leads had dried up. Ron’s twenty-first birthday flew past in a haze of cake and balloons but all he could focus on was trying to find Hermione.

Whenever he realised that a few minutes had gone by in which he had not thought about her, in which he had not scoured his mind for a new place to look or new person to talk to, the guilt crushed him.

‘I just can’t think why he would keep her,’ Ron said to Harry. ‘Why is he holding on to her after all this time? It’s been three months.’

Harry never had an answer.

They sat drinking firewhisky, Ginny curled up next to Harry and staring into the fire. The wedding had been postponed until the following summer. Nobody felt like celebrating. Ron was over there most evening. He was probably imposing but the alternatives were going to the Burrow (where his mother’s stifling pity soon chased him away) or being on his own.

‘Ron, Robards has been talking to me this week,’ Harry said hesitantly. ‘He’s going to call you into his office tomorrow morning but I – I just don’t want you to be unprepared.’ 

Ron smiled wanly. He could see the news coming like a slow-motion car crash. 

‘I’m fired,’ Ron said with dull certainty. Ginny’s eyes snapped away from the fire and she glanced searchingly at Harry.

‘Not exactly,’ Harry said. ‘They want you to take a leave of absence. At least six months.’

Ginny sat up straight. ‘But that isn’t fair!’ she said, eyes narrowed indignantly. Ron felt a surge of affection for her. The two of them might fall out now and again but they always had each other’s corner.

‘It is,’ Ron said. ‘You haven’t seen me at work, Gin. I’m a liability. I need to get my head together before I can go back. And to get my head together, I need to find Hermione.’

Ginny looked away, back to the fire.

‘But what…’ Harry started. ‘I hate to be the first person to say this – but what if – you know…’ He was massaging the back of his neck, looking desperately unhappy and uncomfortable.

‘I’m not ready to give up hope on her,’ Ron said.

The next day, he went to see George.

Being the Easter Holidays, the shop was packed to the gills. George was so busy dealing with specialist questions from customers that Verity or Dale or Gina couldn’t answer, or dealing with complaints, or general overseeing that he almost looked like his old self. Being rushed of his feet was such a profound distraction from his grief that he even laughed sometimes. What was heart breaking was whenever a grin lit his face he glanced immediately around to share the joke with Fred.

‘Busy day!’ Ron shouted over the noise, squeezing himself past a gaggle of teenage wizards comparing joke wands.

George glanced up from his clipboard. ‘Just a tad. We launched our new Putrid Pestilence range this morning and word spreads fast.’ He nodded to the front of the shop where a demonstrator on a pedestal dipped his head in a hessian bag and remerged, covered in what looked like the bubonic plague.

‘Good for parties,’ Ron said as the crowd roared in approval.

‘You know, if you’re at a loose end, I could use an extra pair of hands for a couple of hours,’ George said.

‘That’s actually what I wanted to come to talk to you about,’ Ron said. His innards squirmed with embarrassment but he knew his brother wouldn’t tease him like he certainly would have done at one time. ‘I’m going to be at a bit of a loose end for a while. At least six months. So if you’ve got the hours, here I am!’ He forced himself to sound light-hearted and cheerful.

George frowned and clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder. ‘I’m really sorry about that. But yeah, you’d be a massive help.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Verity’s alright but the other two can hardly tell one end of their wand from the other.’

Ron worked as many hours as George would give him. As well as not wanting any empty time on his hands, Ron had another motivation for wanting to be at the joke shop as much as possible. Even though nothing very Dark was sold at the shop, they did admittedly sell a few items which came in very handy for Dark Wizards. George would never have sold outright to the likes of Clarence Borgin or Moribundus Mulpepper but it wouldn’t have been beneath Dark Arts practitioners to hire an innocent-looking young witch or wizard to buy ingredients for them. Thanks to his Auror-training, it was immensely satisfying to be able to spot these middlemen and bar them from the shop. In exchange for not arresting them, they could often be persuaded to cough up some tidbits from the wizarding underworld. Ron wasn’t yet sure which of the rumours were useful or even true but he stored every scrap of intelligence meticulously away. 

The girl standing in front of him couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She was short but heavily built with a round, freckled face and pale, nervous eyes. She twisted her hands as she spoke. Eventually, she told Ron her name was Kitty Fielding.

‘Shouldn’t you be at Hogwarts?’ Ron asked.

She shrugged and flicked a few wispy strands of hair away from her face.

‘Dropped out, ain’t I,’ she muttered.

Given her poor attempt to summon a Demiguise cloak off the top shelf, Ron wasn’t surprised.

‘So instead you’re working for a nasty little potioneer like Shyverwretch. Well, I could either march you straight down the Ministry for attempted theft and involvement with the Dark Arts,’ Ron said thoughtfully. The girl took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Or you could do me a little favour.’

Kitty eyed him with extreme suspicion. ‘Wha’ kinda _favour_?’ she asked.

‘I need information,’ Ron said. It was a quite day and Gina would probably be taking her sweet time over lunch but Ron decided he better keep the meeting short, just in case. Besides, even though George was supposed to be in New York all week, there was always the chance he might pop his head in the fire to see how things were going.

‘Dunno nuffin’,’ Kitty insisted. ‘Ol’ Wretch come an’ talk to me and me mates in the Wyvern couple o’ days ago. Axed us if we wanna make a couple of quid. Said yeah, didn’ I? ‘E told me to come to the shop this mornin’. Tha’s it, honest!’

She looked like she was telling the truth, or at least she didn’t look intelligent enough to lie well.

‘Do you know why he wants the cloak?’ Ron asked.

‘No clue,’ Kitty said. ‘’E just said to get one, not to come back without it, like.’

Ron let his face fall in disappointment. ‘That really isn’t a lot of information, Kitty. I want to let you off, I really do-‘

‘When I went there, ‘e told me to wait outside first,’ Kitty added suddenly. ‘’E was talking to me mate Eggy.’

‘Eggy?’

‘Egbert, innit. ‘E got there before me. I weren’t meant to be listening in but I did. Wanted to be sure ol’ Wretch didn’t pay ‘im no more than me. ‘E wanted Eggy to get some – some,’ her face scrunched up as she struggled to search for the word. ‘Bloodroot, that’s right!’

‘Bloodroot, okay,’ Ron said. He vaguely remembered Snape mentioning that bloodroot was a poison of some sort but he hadn’t been paying attention properly at the time. ‘You can go,’ he told the girl, putting her out of her misery.

He doubted Kitty’s information would lead to anything. All he’d learnt was that a known criminal wanted an invisibility cloak (but then, they all did) and an obscure, but not as far as he was aware illegal, poison.

George’s little jaunt in the Big Apple had been a roaring success and he’d secured a prime property on Tommyknocker Street for the new WWW branch. Without really realising it, he’d started to rely on Ron to take on more and more responsibility at WWW Diagon, freeing him up to travel, brokering deals with suppliers and discovering new ingredients.

‘Do you use bloodroot at all?’ Ron asked him one evening when the two of them were going through stock.

George quirked his eyebrows up in surprise. ‘Bloodroot? No, we’ve never used it.’

‘It’s a poison, right?’

‘If you take a lot of it, yeah. But poisoners don’t tend to use it because most of the time it’ll just make you really ill – but you won’t die. Funnily enough, it’s used more to heal than harm. It’s good for detoxing, see, as long as you don’t go overboard. But why do you want to know? Was a customer asking to buy some? They’d be better off going to the apothecary. They’d have to have it ordered in, of course.’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with that,’ Ron said. ‘Just looking over my Auror books and came across it. Usually, I would have asked Hermione,’ he said with a half-hearted smile. ‘It’s not a particularly informative book though. Just mentions it as an aside. Do you have any idea why a Dark Wizard might want it?’

George just shook his head. ‘It’s got a few different uses, I think. I could always find out more for you – I’m meeting a specialist potioneer on Friday for some advice, I’ll bring it up.’

‘Cheers,’ Ron said.

* * *

‘I think Shyverwretch is up to something,’ Ron told Harry that Friday.

‘Shyverwretch is always up to something,’ Harry pointed out. ‘They all are down Knockturn Alley.’

‘Yeah, but what if this is something to do with Croaker?’ Ron pointed out earnestly. ‘Look, he’s using bloodroot-’

‘Which has a million and one uses,’ Harry pointed out.

‘Right, but some of those uses are pretty horrifying. Unending comas, blood-boiling potions, slug bait-’

‘Slug bait?’

‘Get it on your enemy and they’ll be eaten alive by slugs as they sleep,’ Ron said. ‘Look, even if this had nothing to do with Hermione, we still owe it to the general public to find out. We might stop someone else getting hurt!’

Harry looked back at Ron with pity. Ron didn’t care. Of course it was a long shot. It was almost certain that Shyverwretch had nothing to do with Croaker. But Ron had to keep trying.

‘Will you investigate this?’ Ron asked. ‘I’d go myself but I’d need an invisibility cloak and the Demiguise ones won’t be up to this job.’


	33. Chapter 33

Lucius had spent the best part of an hour waxing lyrical over the Bleeding Lance he’d read about in the Nightshade Chronicles.

‘And Borgin has written to me to say that he’s managed to procure one,’ Lucius finished, looking feverish in his excitement. 

‘Lovely,’ Draco said flatly.

‘I told Borgin to expect you around four. I assume you have no other plans?’ Lucius’ voice, once so authoritative, now held notes of pleading. If Draco didn’t agree to fetch the lance for him, he’d never be able to face going there himself.

‘That’s fine,’ Draco muttered. He’d never got around to going back to work anyway so it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do.

Borgin sunk into a half-bow when Draco entered the shop. The expression on his face bordered on sarcastic but Draco ignored it.

‘The lance?’ Draco said, cutting to the chase. 

‘Of course, of course, Mr Malfoy,’ Borgin said, reaching under the counter and bringing out a shimmering bronze artefact. Even from a few feet away, Draco could feel the pull of ancient energy – he smiled wryly to himself when he thought how ecstatic his father would be to get his hands on it. He’d lock himself in the library and wouldn’t come out until he’d explored every centimetre of it.

‘It’s eight hundred thousand galleons,’ Borgin said.

‘Eight?’ Draco repeated. ‘You had agreed on six with my father.’

Borgin inclined his head. ‘That may have been the case but things change-’

‘How much could they have changed since this morning?’ Draco drawled coldly. ‘Six was agreed, so six I’ll pay.’ He put the gold, shrunk to fit its fine velvet bag, on the counter. Borgin glowered but his claw-like hand reached out to take it. Contracts were signed and Borgin promised to have the lance delivered that afternoon.

‘How is your dear father?’ Borgin asked, eyes glittering with malice. ‘One hears he hasn’t been at all well since the war.’

‘He’s in perfectly good health,’ Draco said. He wouldn’t let this oily little man embarrass him.

Outside the shop, Draco almost shouted out in surprise when a hand tightened on his shoulder.

‘Just keep walking, Malfoy!’ a voice hissed in his ear.

‘Weasley? Is that you?’ Draco asked quietly. He studied the air behind him but it was perfectly transparent. A hag a little way up the street gave him a strange look. ‘Does Potter know you have that?’

‘Just walk!’

Draco was marched past half a dozen shops and into a small side alley before Ron Weasley pulled the invisibility cloak off.

‘So much for your reformation!’ Weasley spat.

Draco looked Weasley up and down disdainfully. ‘Have you seen me doing anything illegal?’

‘Oh, I suppose you were just buying flowers in Borgin and Burkes,’ Weasley said sarcastically.

‘Is there a point to this conversation?’ Draco asked.

‘Do you know anything about bloodroot?’ Weasley asked.

Draco smirked. ‘If you’d listened to Professor Snape occasionally, you wouldn’t need to ask me that question.’

Weasley drew his wand.

‘Oh, really?’ Draco sneered. ‘Like you’re really going to curse me!’

‘Don’t push me!’ Weasley snarled.

‘Why do you even think I know about it?’ Draco asked. ‘Or have you just been wandering up and down Knockturn, waiting to see someone who looked marginally more intelligent than the usual thugs and trolls that tend to frequent the street?’

Weasley gave a sort of half-shrug, which Draco interpreted as a concession.

‘But tell me, why should I help you?’

Weasley screwed up his face as though the next words out of his mouth were going to cause him great pain.

‘Because I’m trying to find Hermione,’ Weasley said. ‘I’m the only one still trying.’

Anger flared in Draco’s chest. How dare the weasel think he was the only one who hadn’t given up hope!

‘You don’t think I’ve been trying?’ Draco said through gritted teeth. ‘You don’t think I haven’t been researching non-stop?’

‘So prove it by helping me,’ Weasley said. Looking reluctant, he lowered his wand. ‘Maybe we stand a chance together.’

Every instinct of Draco’s resisted but in the end he nodded in agreement and agreed to meet over Potter’s that evening.

It was the Weasley girl who answered the door. She nodded a greeting and invited him in. Ron Weasley was already there and the three of them sat in awkward silence holding mugs of milky tea and not touching the plate of biscuits while they waited for Potter.

‘Sorry about that time, you know, with the Bat-Bogey Curse,’ the Weasley girl said to Draco, wildly looking for something to say to break the silence.

‘Yeah, well, sorry about that time my dad got you possessed and nearly murdered by a dead sociopath,’ Draco said.

‘That _was_ pretty rubbish of him,’ she agreed. 

Potter arrived a few minutes later and nodded at Draco. ‘I’m glad you could come. I think we need to pool our strengths if we’re going to find Hermione.’

‘Does that mean the Ministry’s stopped looking?’ Draco asked.

Potter nodded ruefully. ‘Pretty much. She’s presumed dead until they have any evidence proving otherwise.’

‘Bastards,’ Weasley said bitterly. For once, Draco agreed with him wholeheartedly. 

‘Well, you’re the only one who’s had access to the Ministry files recently,’ Draco said, addressing Potter. ‘Do they have anything we can work off?’

‘Maybe,’ Potter said. ‘There’s still the younger sister, Beth. She moved to Krakow but the Polish Ministry says they haven’t heard anything from her. I’m thinking of going over there myself.’

‘Even if we do manage to track her down, what are the chances that she knows anything about what Croaker’s up to now?’ the Weasley girl pointed out.

‘Slim,’ Potter admitted. ‘I was also thinking it would be worth speaking to the Muggle authorities. I’m assuming the Grangers would have reported Hermione’s disappearance to the police, even though the Ministry told them not to. They might know something.’

‘It’s worth a shot, I suppose,’ the Weasley girl said. Draco was highly dubious that the Muggles would know anything at all but didn’t begrudge them wasting their time if they so desired.

‘I really think it’s worth looking into the bloodroot,’ Weasley said. ‘I’ve got a feeling that it means something. Harry, you said yourself that it was a suspicious ingredient for Shyverwretch to be after.’

Potter didn’t look convinced but nodded anyway, giving Weasley his approval for further investigation. Draco could have snorted at the image of Weasley trying to get information out of Shyverwretch, who was one of the nastiest, surliest old warlock’s he had ever had the misfortune to deal with.

‘And Mal – Draco,’ Potter amended. ‘When was the last time you heard anything about Nott?’

‘A couple of weeks ago,’ Draco said. ‘I visited his aunt.’

It hadn’t been a pleasant visit. Ella Nott had sat cradling her cold tea and talked about what her nephew had been like as a boy in a small drawing room choked with heat and the smell of incense. She’d told Draco that he’d been moved from St Mungo’s to a ‘secure location’.

‘She wishes he would die,’ Draco told them quietly. ‘While there’s still something left of him that can.’ 

‘Where’s the secure location?’ Potter asked.

‘She didn’t know.’ He flashed a humourless grin. ‘But I’m sure a seasoned rule breaker such as yourself is capable of getting that information somehow.’

Potter made them all more cups of tea.

‘And you’re sure Iridessa Macmillan doesn’t know anything?’ the Weasley girl asked Potter.

‘Pretty sure. She said she’d contact the Ministry if she thought of anything. I suppose it wouldn’t harm to make another ‘official visit’ – she and Tybalt said they’re at home most of the time.’

Tybalt and Iridessa – the shock of familiarity danced just outside of Draco’s memory.

‘I know those names,’ Draco said. ‘I thought Iridessa sounded familiar, but I’ve definitely heard of them as a couple.’

He steepled his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to remember. 

‘They’re my mother’s family, I think,’ Draco said. ‘Iridessa’s a distant cousin, I’m pretty sure.’

‘She was a Rosier,’ Potter said.

‘I’ll ask my mother about her,’ Draco said. ‘She keeps in touch with everyone, providing, you know, they haven’t married a Muggle or a Weasley or anything like that.’

“Careful, Malfoy!’ the Weasley girl said angrily. 

Draco raised his hands to make a surrender motion. ‘I’m not saying that she’s right in doing so, I’m just saying that’s what she does. Personally, I think that boasting the largest light bulb collection in the British Isles is a fine accomplishment,’ he said with a completely straight face.

‘Well, it’s certainly worth asking,’ Potter said. ‘Maybe Iridessa will admit something to family which she wouldn’t to the authorities.’

* * *

The reason it had taken Draco so long to realise why the name Iridessa Macmillan was so familiar was because Narcissa had probably only mentioned it two or three times among dozens of distant family members. Besides, Draco only ever half-listened when she told him that his great-great uncle Murray had accidentally cursed his own big toe off in the throes of his rapidly-progressing dementia, or his fourth cousin Scarleta was the new Enchantments professor at Durmstrang.

‘Have you heard from Tybalt and Iridessa lately?’ Draco asked his mother that evening while she sat doing her embroidery in front of the fire. Things had been strained between them of late, so she had seemed pleased when he had joined her in the drawing room after dinner rather than retreating to his room.

She looked over at him with curiosity now. ‘Not so long ago, actually. They’re both quite well. Why do you ask?’

‘Borgin wanted to know. I presume he was just making small talk. Tybalt used to go there, although he hasn’t visited in years. Iridessa’s your second cousin, isn’t she?’

‘Third, once removed,’ Narcissa corrected. She smiled to herself. ‘It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Tybalt has stopped going to Knockturn Alley. He was always cautiously conservative; he never likes to go against the current of popular opinion.’

Draco waited. Now that he had broached the subject, he was sure Narcissa would start talking about them by herself.

‘I haven’t seen them in years, in fact, even though they always send lovely long letters. Their son is doing a tour of the Americas and he’s sent them back some fascinating pieces – a rougarou claw, a bottle of apparating spiders from the Amazon, cursed pottery from the Andes, a tail feather from a thunderbird, miniature totems…’

‘Apparating spiders,’ Draco mused to himself, recalling Weasley’s feeling concerning spiders and wondering if it would be terribly childish to let some loose in his flat.

‘Iridessa’s always been so proud of her boy,’ Narcissa said fondly. ‘It’s a good thing you and Dain weren’t too close in age or we would have been very competitive!’

‘Father might like to see some of these things,’ Draco suggested. ‘It’ll get him out of the house.’

Narcissa’s smiled faded. ‘If Borgin’s trove won’t lure him out, I doubt he’ll be tempted by these – your father’s hardly an animal lover. Of course, they’re doubtlessly steeped in history but not very Dark. I’ll ask him, though – I certainly wouldn’t mind dropping in to visit them even if Lucius doesn’t want to come.’

‘If you go, I’ll join you,’ Draco said.

They went a few days later. Iridessa had written saying she would be delighted to show them their collection, insisting they stay for dinner. Lucius had declined to join them under the pretence that Iridessa was an irritating old bat at the best of times and Tybalt as dull as ditchwater.

Iridessa, a stately woman in her early sixties with perfectly coiffed hair and heavy gold jewellery, gave Narcissa a papery kiss on the cheek and allowed Draco to kiss her hand. She gave them a tour of the library where all their oddities were kept. Dain had most recently sent a necklace of vampire teeth he’d won in cards from a half-goblin.

‘They still have those dogfights out in the sticks. You know, they stick a vampire and a werewolf in a cage and people place bets on them. Anyway, this particular werewolf, his name was Scamp, Dain said, was a champion in Baton Rouge, owned by a lovely couple. Dain dined with them a few evenings. Scamp was famous in the Deep South, he’d killed more vampires than any other wolf, and he always took one of their fangs as a souvenir.’ She gave a little shudder of delight. ‘Vicious creature. The thing was though, people started to get jealous. Someone slipped him some Wolfsbane potion right before a big fight and that was it. He couldn’t fight as well.’

‘The vampire killed him,’ Draco said, feeling nauseated.

‘Oh, no, Scamp survived,’ Iridessa said. ‘But he was no good for fighting after that. His masters set him loose on the street with what few possessions he had and he sold them all to eat. It hasn’t got much monetary value to it, of course,’ Iridessa said, holding the necklace up to the light. ‘But still, it has a nice little story.’

After seeing the rest of the treasure, Draco and Narcissa were shown to the dining room, where they were joined by Tybalt. Lucius hadn’t been wrong about the man – he mostly talked about the exchange rate between British Galleons and American Dragots, and the price he had paid for various ornaments in the room. They sipped lobster bisque and winkled snails out of their shells while their elf trotted around refilling their drinks.

‘See this glass, Draco,’ Tybalt said in his low, rumbling voice, holding up the fine crystal in his stubby fingers.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Draco said.

‘A hundred Galleons for a set of four! This is goblin-made, see, unsmashable and never needs cleaning. I paid that much thirty years ago, when they were going cheap. I expect I could sell them now for three or four times the price.’

Iridessa mostly talked about her son.

‘Dain is ever so clever,’ she said, beaming. ‘They’ve been begging him to join them at MACUSA – you know, the American Ministry – but he says he’s not ready to work in an office yet. And I think it’s quite right! The young should explore the world while they have the chance. There’ll be plenty of time for him to settle down and shoulder some responsibility later on.’

Draco was beginning to lose hope of being able to get Iridessa on her own that evening, when Tybalt started to talk about some old maps he had that used to belong to the Black family.

‘Narcissa, you must come up to the attic with me to see them,’ Tybalt announced, struggling to his feet and reaching out for Narcissa’s arm. Smiling politely, Narcissa acquiesced and followed him upstairs.

‘You’ve never met my Dain, have you?’ Iridessa asked Draco, who shook his head. ‘No, he would have left Hogwarts the year before you started. Or maybe two years. Something like that. That’s a pity, really, because he could have looked out for you. He was a Slytherin, too, and Head Boy!’

‘That’s – er, that’s very nice,’ Draco said. ‘You know I was talking a couple of months back to a man called Croaker and he mentioned that he knew you in school.’

Iridessa lowered the wineglass she had been holding and clasped her hands together.

‘Yes, I did know Saul,’ she said, her voice quavering a little. ‘I haven’t spoken to him in nearly forty years, but we used to be rather close.’

Her entire demeanour had changed and she looked uneasy and younger somehow, like a frightened little girl. Draco knew he would have to tread carefully so as not to spook her.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs Macmillan,’ Draco said quietly. He reached out to touch her arm and she smiled at him.

‘Of course not, my dear boy.’

‘Did you-?’ Draco wondered how far he should push it, how far before natural curiosity looked like prying. ‘Did you have an argument?’ 

She sighed heavily. ‘Not exactly. But I broke off our engagement, which understandably distressed him, and we never spoke after that.’ She hesitated. ‘What did you think of Saul?’

Draco had never had a conversation with the man but, after studying everything about him for the past few months, felt like an expert. He’d read character descriptions from a dozen different sources, enough to pretend to have met him. ‘Nice enough, very polite,’ Draco said. ‘A little, you know, formal, but friendly in his own way.’ 

‘Yes,’ she said a little absently. ‘That was what he was like with most people – and he could keep it up for quite a long time. I suppose you must have heard that he’s been in trouble with the law recently. Kidnapped some poor woman.’

Draco’s insides clenched. ‘Yes, I heard about that. Sorry, but what did you mean by “keep it up”? What was he really like?’

Iridessa waved her hand. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, I suppose. Maybe I didn’t know him all that well. It’s just… every now and again, it was like he was a completely different person. He would terrify me. I told myself I was being silly. But then, when he showed me this pretty little house he’d bought for us out in the Hebrides, the Knut dropped. I realised I couldn’t live alone with him out in the middle of nowhere like that. I’d spend the rest of my life sleeping with one eye open.’

‘He bought a house in the Hebrides?’ Draco said. He hadn’t read about that in the Auror report. ‘Do you remember where in the Hebrides?’


	34. Chapter 34

It was a dry day so Hermione spent the morning hoeing the vegetable patch in the sunny part of the garden, loosening the small weeds before they could take root. Even though she was being kept prisoner, Hermione couldn’t suppress the urge to do a job well and she had meticulously studied every gardening book on the kitchen shelf.

Some days, she didn’t think about the outside world at all. Her new life had expanded to fill every corner of her brain, until there was no room for anything else.

Hermione was sure that it must be May by now, but it was the first time she had felt warm outside. The earth was slow to thaw up here. She rolled back the sleeves of her robes and had to take several breaks, panting, sweat trickling, seeping through her clothes, dampening her back and underarms. The hoe was heavy and unwieldy and she had to be careful not to damage the young vegetables. She pushed her hair back from her face and attacked the earth once more.

Croaker was spending less and less time in his office. He often went for long walks in the countryside, although he was never foolish enough to leave the few acres of land he permitted the girls to live in to be left uncharmed. Hermione checked whenever she could but there was never the slightest gap in the shield. Other times, he just sat wherever she or Regan was, watching them work with an enigmatic smile or reading the papers.

By the time Hermione had finished in the garden, it was nearly noon. On her way back to the house, Croaker strode out the front door, whistling, with a bounce in his step.

‘Strange time to go out,’ Hermione said to Regan as she washed her hands at the sink, taking extra care to get the dirt out from under her fingernails. Croaker nursed a special loathing for dirty fingernails. ‘It’s almost lunchtime.’

‘Hm,’ Regan said, slicing carrots very slowly.

‘What’s the matter?’ Hermione asked.

Regan jerked her head up and smiled quickly, but it looked more like a twitch, an involuntary contraction of muscles with no emotion behind it.

‘Nothing. I was just – I was miles away.’

‘Right,’ Hermione said slowly, studying Regan, examining the tenseness in her demeanour.

It might have been nothing. Except Hermione had seen the way Croaker had been looking at Regan – with hungry possessiveness. He seemed to go out of his way to touch her, sometimes caressing a ringlet of her hair or brushing against her hand.

‘What’s he done to you?’ Hermione asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Regan grimaced. ‘You can’t do anything to stop it. If you make him angry, he’ll only lock you up again.’ She glanced over at Hermione helplessly. ‘And you almost died last time.’

Hermione stood stock still for a few moments. As much as she tried to find a solution, a way to punish Croaker, Regan was right. There was nothing Hermione could do, not at this moment in time anyway. Confronting Croaker would achieve nothing and might even result in a worse outcome for Regan. For a second she fantasised about burying a knife in his throat – or chest or belly – but every object in the accursed house was charmed not to hurt him. She had learnt that the hard way when she had tried to bash him over the head with a hot poker and it had melted like a strand of spaghetti.

Hermione opened her mouth. She hadn’t yet decided what to say, perhaps a few paltry words of comfort or an apology, but she was interrupted by loud, cheerful voices from outside the house. It was the first time in months she had heard someone who wasn’t Croaker or Regan.

Regan’s hand flew to her mouth, mirroring Hermione’s expression of shock.

‘Hello? Is anyone at home?’

Just outside the front gate, centimetres from the shield, a couple of hikers were panting. There was a tall, stringy-looking man with receding straw-coloured hair and oversized glasses, his arm around a cheerful looking lady with soft, grey hair in a long plait.

‘Thank goodness you’re at home!’ the man chirped in a friendly Yorkshire accent as Hermione and Regan went cautiously up to them. ‘I don’t think there’s another house for miles and that hill took more out of us than we reckoned. Would you mind if we had a glass of water.’

Hermione froze for several seconds, blinking stupidly until the man coughed, looking embarrassed.

‘We wouldn’t have asked, except we haven’t seen any streams or anything to fill our bottles and the town is hours away,’ the woman added.

‘I- I don’t think-‘ Hermione started slowly before realising the most common type of shield charm only barred the passage of _living_ things. There were more advanced charms but Croaker might not have thought to cast one of those given that Hermione had no wand anyway.

‘Throw the bottle over,’ Hermione said. On some level, beneath the fog of her growing excitement, she realised how socially impaired she must have sounded but the couple, after exchanging brief glances of confusion, did as she said. The empty bottle soared over the fence and landed in the grass.

‘I’ll fill it up for you, then,’ Hermione said, feeling somehow detached from herself as she picked it up.

‘We can get a message to someone on the outside,’ Regan said excitedly as soon as they were in the house.

Hermione nodded. ‘Yes. But we have one chance at this. We can’t tell anyone non-magical because they’ll never be able to beat Croaker – and who knows how careful he’ll be with us after that.’

‘What about Draco?’ Regan suggested.

Something painful burnt in Hermione’s chest, a profound sense of longing that winded her. She would have given anything to feel his skin against hers, to bury herself in his neck and inhale.

‘I don’t think so. The only way to contact him – or Harry or Ginny come to that – is by owl, and those Muggles won’t be able to send one. Although, actually…’ she corrected herself, realising there was a way to at least get in contact with Harry.

Hermione jotted down a quick note and folded it up. There was no envelope at hand so she just wrote ‘Harry Potter, Auror Headquarters, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, The Ministry of Magic’ on the front.

‘They have wizards at the post office,’ Hermione said. ‘Even without a stamp, this should make it to the Ministry.’

Regan nodded, daring to look hopeful.

Outside, the couple were looking understandably ill at ease. 

‘We were wondering,’ the lady began, leaning a little closer, ‘we were just wondering if you girls were alright?’ There was concern in her eyes and a certain sharpness, as though she were studying their symptoms.

‘Well, no, the truth is we’re not exactly alright,’ Hermione said. ‘Don’t come closer!’

It was too late. The lady had reached out as though to comfort Hermione and the shield had smacked her hand back. The lady let out a cry of shock.

‘We’re trapped here,’ Regan whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘You have to help us.’

The woman, still looking at her hand, looked too stunned to respond but the man nodded.

‘Of course, of course,’ he said quickly. ‘We’ll call the police as soon as we get back to town.’

‘It can’t be the police, it can’t!’ Hermione said urgently. She realised she was still holding the letter and bottle of water. She threw them over the fence with a gentle, underarm movement. ‘That letter, please just give it in at the first post office you come across. I know it doesn’t have a stamp but that doesn’t matter.’

The man gave her a sort of avuncular look, one which was no doubt meant to be reassuring and authoritative. ‘My dear, I can see that you’re frightened but I assure you that going to the police is the best way to deal with this. They’re professionals.’

‘You can’t!’ Hermione cried, close to tears. What was worse was that she could think of nothing reasonable or rational or believable to tell them by way of an explanation. ‘Just please take it to the post office!’

‘You should go soon,’ Regan said. ‘We don’t know when he’ll be back.’

The couple looked back at each other, some silent conversation happening between them, but in the end the man agreed, inclining his head.

As Hermione watched the couple disappear down a hill, a strange bubble of emotion bloomed in her chest. It took several seconds for her to recognise it as hope.

It didn’t last long.

Dinner that evening was a tense affair. Hermione and Regan knew the second Croaker walked through the door that he was in one of his dark moods. He could keep these up for hours before eventually saying what it was that one of them had done to upset it, something bizarre that they couldn’t have predicted like not closing a drawer all the way or using a seasoning that he didn’t like.

They ate in near silence, cutlery scraping loudly against the plates.

Without warning, Croaker stood up half way through eating the main course and hurled his plate against the wall. Gravy ran in rivulets down the stone.

‘What I find so difficult to understand is what I’ve done to deserve this?’ Croaker said, his voice eerily calm and still. He sounded patient and disappointed at the same time. ‘I’ve-’ His voice started to shake. ‘I’ve brought you into my home and this is how you repay me. By trying to sneak away like a couple of _thieves in the night_.’

Hermione and Regan looked at each other with terror over the table.

‘All you had to do was ignore those nice people and they would be back in their bed and breakfast by now, writing letters to their grandchildren about the lovely holiday they’re having,’ Croaker said, his voice heavy with regret. ‘But no, you two had to drag them in were they weren’t needed and ruin everything.’

Croaker lunged towards Hermione. She darted away but he was too fast for her, clamping her arms deftly behind her back.

‘No, no no!’ she screamed, trying to kick him away. ‘Don’t put me back in the room, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

It was a very long period of isolation. To still her bored mind, Hermione scratched pictures into the soft wood with her nails, flowers and butterflies and clouds. 

Once, she was woken up by the heavy slam of her door. Croaker had left a loaf of bread and a jug of goat’s milk for her. He clearly meant for her to stay in here longer than she ever had before if he was giving her food and drink. She might be in here for months or even years.

A few times, she was woken up by Regan’s cries, muffled by the thick walls. Worse than what was happening was the guilt over her relief: at least it wasn’t her, at least Hermione didn’t have that foul beast looming over her, his breath on her neck. 

Her dreams were starting to border on hallucinations. Her grandmother seemed to be in the room with her, her wrinkled nut-brown hands threading soothingly through Hermione’s hair, a lilting hum like a lullaby in her throat. Or the Weasley twins, both alive, smirking together as they should have been able to do for another hundred years to come. Luna sat cross-legged, dreamily describing the Wrackspurts she had found in the woods and named Jemima, Eldritch and Euclid. 

Then Draco had his arms around her and she felt she might dissolve from the bittersweetness of it.

‘I’m getting you out of here,’ he said to her, trying to pull her to her feet.

‘We can’t leave the room,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ve tried the door a hundred times. Croaker never forgets to lock it.’

His hands gripped her face and he looked into her eyes as deeply as he would have in real life. It almost made her glad that Croaker had locked her up if it meant she could see him so clearly. His eyes were a silver lining.


	35. Chapter 35

On the horizon, the street lamps of Kitterbie Town started to flicker out as the night sky greyed into morning. Draco was leaning on the front railings of the ferry, willing the shore to drag itself closer; their pace over the choppy dark seemed snail-like.

Draco had taken the Knight bus up to Scotland as soon as he had left Iridessa’s house, bowing out early under the excuse of an upset stomach. Of course, as soon as he reached the west coast and had seen on the map exactly how far out Kitterbie island was, he realised that apparating there would be impossible for all but the most skilled of wizards – and on reflection, Draco didn’t think he’d be much use to Hermione if he ended up splinched in the middle of the Sea of the Hebrides. He had briefly considered going back to Malfoy Manor for his broom but that would have meant, quite apart from wasting precious time, possibly being held up by Narcissa. Fortunately for Draco, tourist season was underway; the next ferry hadn’t been due to leave until the following day but a quick confundus spell was enough to convince the captain that they were supposed to leave at once. 

Except for the looks of amusement Draco had got for his midnight blue robes with silver trimmings, the crossing had passed uneventfully.

The ferry docked in the quaint little town full of pastel-coloured houses with dark slate roofs, and sleepy sailboats bobbing in the harbour. Draco strode straight past the fish bars and gift shops to the tourist information office.

Behind the desk, a bored-looking teenage girl was chewing gum and playing with a strand of her hair. She raised an eyebrow as Draco walked up to her but didn’t straighten up from her slouch.

‘And, er, how can I help ye?’ she drawled.

‘I’m looking for a farmhouse called “Oxeye Ridge”,’ Draco said coolly. ‘Could you tell me where it is?’

The girl pulled out a pamphlet and flattened it out to study the map of the island on the back. After a second, she announced unhelpfully, ‘Cannae see it.’

‘Is there anyone else who works here?’ Draco asked, thinking the girl might benefit from a nice little jinx. Nothing too nasty, just a tooth-enlarging hex or jelly legs. ‘Someone who might know more than you do?’

She rolled her eyed. ‘It’s only me here, mannie. But the lady over the road in the florist knows everything about the island. Might try asking her.’

Thankfully, the florist, a diminutive woman called Mary, did seem to know about everything that had happened on the island since the Vikings had left. She knew exactly where Oxeye Ridge was but the squiggly pencil map she drew Draco looked like some sort of abstract painting. Still, he understood the general idea was to head west and keep going up the hill.

‘It’s been abandoned for years, though,’ she warned him. ‘Since Farmer Brennan died. They say the place is cursed.’

‘I’ll take my chances,’ Draco said before thanking her.

Draco had never been a fan of unnecessary exertion – there was something distastefully unaristocratic about sweating – so he found it hard going as he trudged through the heather-scented scrubland and copses of spruces. By noon, he had found the clearing in the forest, most of which was taken up by abandoned farmland which was steadily being reclaimed by nature. Nearer the house was a vegetable garden, the heads of baby carrots and lettuce poking through the weeds.

Draco proceeded with caution. The disillusionment charm he’d cast on himself would stop him being glimpsed out of the corner of someone’s eye, but a careful observer might still spot him. He circled the house a few times, considering what to do next.

‘Homenum Revelio,’ he said quietly, pointing his wand. A bluish wisp of smoke floated from the end of his wand and broke into three streams, each swirling in front of a different part of the house for a few seconds before disappearing.

So, there were three people inside. Draco’s heart quickened excitedly.

He took a few wary steps forward, still trying to keep out of view of the windows, when the shield charm pushed him backwards, a sharp tingle running over his skin.

Draco hissed. Depending on how powerful Croaker was, it might take him all day to crack the defences around the farmhouse. Hoping to find a weak spot in the shield, a patch where the magic was thinnest, Draco looped slowly around the shield, dragging his wand over the surface; the air swirled and rippled and his wand shot out the odd red spark.

When Draco had drawn level with the back of the house, he heard a loud bang from the front. Glancing up, he saw a dark shape streak up into the sky. Draco immediately recognised it as a broom and, though his wand hand twitched longingly, he realised it was moving too fast for him to hope to curse it.

Tearing his eyes away from the fading dot on the skyline, Draco turned his attention back to the shield charm. He had a knack for charms, much more so than transfiguration, but unfortunately had never really applied himself to the subject as much as he had to acquiring every thinkable hex and jinx into his arsenal. Still, he set about working through the defence and counter-charms he knew until finally he ripped the shield enough for him to slide through. Disabling the whole thing from the inside would be much easier.

The inside of the house was gleamingly neat and cosy. The only thing which marred the fairy-tale perfect setting was the young woman chained to the kitchen floor with just enough length for her to move about the room and clean it.

‘Draco?’ she asked, shocked.

‘Regan,’ he answered, trying not to stare. She didn’t look like herself. In every possible way it was possible for a person to change in a matter of a few months, she had changed. Her hair was brittle and lifeless, her skin looked dull to the point of being greyish, her eyes were dead and she was drawn into herself, making herself look as small as she could like a twitchy, frightened animal.

‘Where’s Hermione?’ Draco asked hoarsely.

‘He wouldn’t let her out,’ Regan said. ‘I’ve asked – but – it makes him angry when I ask too much. He’s been in a bad mood a lot recently.’ The last sentence came out as a whisper.

‘But where is she?’ Draco asked.

Regan moved automatically as though to lead Draco there but the chain held her left leg back. With a swish of his wand, Draco freed her. Seeing her limp a little, he made to help her, but at the touch of his hand, she jumped and shrank back. Draco pulled away warily, holding up the palms of his hands.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said quietly.

‘I know,’ she said, but still held herself back, sidling along against the wall as though she was safer at the edge of the room with something to support her.

Hermione was being kept in the little room at the end of the landing.

She looked absolutely awful, even worse than Regan.

‘Hermione! Hermione!’ Draco cried, crouching down to look her in the face. After a second or so, her eyes drifted over to meet his and the ghost of a smile lit her face.

‘It’s you,’ she said.

‘It’s me,’ Draco agreed, stroking her hair. ‘We’re leaving here. Right now.’

‘Don’t be silly, the door’s locked,’ she said. She closed her eyes and leaned forwards, touching her forehead to his shoulder. ‘I’ve missed you, you know.’

‘I know. I know. And I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you.’

Draco could barely breathe. He wanted to curl up on the floor with Hermione and hold her and beg her forgiveness for everything that happened. But there was no time.

‘We have to go,’ he repeated firmly, dragging her to her feet. ‘We’re going.’

He had to half-carry her out of the room. She had lost so much weight it was like cradling a baby bird. 

One of the rooms they passed was ajar. There were a few sets of wizard’s robes strewn on the floor and jumble of shoes. Suddenly, explosively, anger ripped through Draco as he remembered Croaker and what he had done.

‘I’m going to kill him,’ Draco said under his breath.

‘Maybe, yes,’ Hermione said. ‘But not now.’ She seemed to be waking up now that she was out of the room, gaining a firmer handle on reality. ‘Now we have to go.’

Draco looked back at her, at her beautiful brown eyes. Croaker could wait a couple of hours. He needed to get Hermione somewhere safe.


	36. Chapter 36

A.N. Implications of rape in this chapter. Nothing graphic, but could be disturbing if you don’t like reading that sort of thing.

It was a dream. Being outside was all a dream. Perhaps being free had only been a dream – perhaps Regan had been born in captivity and had only ever fantasised about being elsewhere. It certainly seemed ludicrous at times that she had once been a daughter, a girlfriend, a doctor, a not-half-bad hockey player, an enthusiastic traveller, a borderline dangerous driver and a hundred other things. 

When Draco had opened the door, she had recoiled at first, terrified that if her fragile reality tore her whole sanity would come crumbling down.

But it had not.

Hermione gripping her hand so tightly she was sure to cut of both their circulations, they stepped outside and through the front gate.

Hermione squinted even though it was not a very bright day and Regan realised that Hermione had not been allowed to see daylight for several weeks. She, Regan, had been on a tight enough lead, but Croaker had at least allowed her out of her room, even in the garden a couple of times.

Once the house was out of sight, Regan burst into tears. Not even sure what she was feeling except for an explosion of something, the tears wouldn’t subside. She told herself that there would be time for all that nonsense later, that they had to concentrate on getting to safety, but her body had floated away from her – she’d unhinged from it at some point, and it was a rickety, unstable thing made of water and tremors.

‘We have to keep moving,’ Draco reminded softly, touching her elbow in order to nudge her onwards. Regan was surprised at how small a touch could have such an effect on her, sending her stomach swooping with nausea. She knew Draco meant no harm, but the thought of strange male hands on her was unbearable.

They found the strength to move, heading down the mountain with as much haste as they could.

Regan was sure it couldn’t be over. Any minute now, Croaker would come tearing out of the sky like a vicious eagle. The sharp fear was giving her a headache.

But Draco has a wand, too! Regan reminded herself. 

Draco had tried optimistically to summon Hermione’s wand, even though she had pointed out that Croaker had probably taken the caution of placing an anti-summoning charm on it, and they didn’t have time to search manually.

‘I’ll take you St Mungo’s,’ Draco was saying, thinking up a plan as he half-supported, half-carried Hermione down the slope. ‘Then I’ll come back and sort out Croaker.’

‘Not on your own,’ Hermione said firmly. ‘Go to the Auror Headquarters – or talk to Harry, at least. He’ll go with you.’

Draco didn’t look convinced but Hermione was hardly in a fit state for a debate on the matter, so he just nodded. Regan wondered whether he would really listen.

‘Oh no,’ Hermione said under her breath, turning and looking back up the hill. ‘We forgot something.’

‘Whatever it is, it can’t be important enough for you to want to go back there,’ Draco said with an expression of disbelief. 

‘The book,’ Hermione said unhappily. ‘The grimoire.’

‘I can get that later with the Aurors,’ Draco said.

‘But what if he leaves and takes it with him?’ Hermione argued. ‘We can’t go back to square one!’

‘Hermione, the Aurors will get him,’ Regan said, mortified at the idea of going back up the hill. ‘He has nowhere to hide.’

Hermione looked back and forth between Regan and Draco. ‘We need that book.’

Draco let out a noise of exasperation. ‘You two wait here! I’ll run back for it!’

Hermione looked ready to argue but Regan grabbed her hand. There was no way she was being left alone in the woods so close to where they’d been held captive.

Regan and Hermione sat on a log while Draco sprinted up the hill. They were left alone with the twitter of songbirds.

‘He – he talked about the book sometimes,’ Regan offered. She hadn’t understood a lot of what he was saying when he was lying next to her, breathing rapidly on her neck as he tried to justify his actions. There was an explanation for everything, a Machiavellian logic, an excuse. She’d tried her best to remember every word anyway, thinking anything might have been important.

‘He talked about Nott,’ she said as Hermione listened to her, perfectly silent and attentive. ‘He kept saying it wasn’t his fault.’ It had seemed important to Croaker that Regan knew that. He didn’t want her to think that he was the sort of person to destroy people for the sake of it. ‘Nott read the book because the book wanted him to. It could sense his curiosity.’ 

Regan drew a deep breath and recounted what more she could. Different memories, all raw and painful but containing vital information.

‘He was almost finished.’

‘Finished with what?’ Hermione asked, voice trembling.

‘Making the world a better place. People are cruel and selfish and irresponsible, he said. After he was done, only the worthy would be left and-’ Regan let out a sob. ‘He said he’d keep you alive for my sake, even though you weren’t really worthy. You were nosy and disrespectful and ungrateful but your life would be his present to me.’

Hermione looked down at the ground, blanching. ‘Well, I knew he wasn’t my biggest fan. I’m almost afraid to ask who the unworthy were.’

‘People who wouldn’t do as he said. Anyone who wouldn’t obey,’ Regan said.

Hermione tried to smile. ‘Well, someone certainly has delusions of grandeur. We’ve had two dark wizards try to take over the world and fail in the last century already and Croaker isn’t nearly as powerful or intelligent as either of them.’ She frowned. ‘Which doesn’t mean he still couldn’t do enough damage to be getting on with.’

Fortunately, Draco was back in less than ten minutes. ‘Still no sign of Croaker,’ he panted.

He’d bundled the book up in as many blankets as he could get his hands on, but Regan still felt compelled to edge away from something so evil.

They managed to reach the little town of Kitterbie in quite good time. It was full of people being, well, people. They walked around and chatted and smiled and said good afternoon to each other. The normality bordered on indecent.

‘We better get to the boat,’ Draco said; his arm was around Hermione as though he were afraid to let go of her for even a second. ‘It’s this way.’

‘Can we just stop here for some ibuprofen?’ Regan said as they passed a pharmacy. 

‘Pain killers,’ Hermione explained when Draco looked quizzical.

Draco frowned. ‘But I can heal you if you’re hurt.’

‘It’s just a headache,’ Regan said. ‘And I’d rather have a break from, you know, the M word for the time being.’

Suddenly realising she had no money on her, Regan patted her pockets uselessly as though she would somehow miraculously find coins there. ‘Could I borrow some money?’

Draco hesitated and glanced at Hermione. She looked back at him wearily. ‘It won’t take two minutes.’

‘Fine,’ Draco said, and the three of them went in the shop.

Regan quickly grabbed what she wanted while Draco stood near the counter, stiff and unnatural as was his way around people he didn’t know. Or rather, Regan realised upon reflection, as was his way around non-magical people he didn’t know.

Perhaps if Draco hadn’t been so preoccupied with eyeing the pharmacist suspiciously and Hermione hadn’t been staring fervently at Draco as though she were checking he were really there, one of them would have seen Croaker come into the shop and reacted in time.

Regan was the first to see him and, to her great shame, she froze. The slight, almost frail-looking frame was deceptively powerful, as Regan well knew. His long, crooked hands could bend and break her. The bright, indulgent spark in his eye could turn without warning to an icy glint of fury.

Frozen, Regan did nothing as Croaker stalked towards her, his wrath at a higher pitch than she had ever seen.

He pointed his wand and Regan let out a small, strangled cry.

Draco cocked his head, suddenly alert, but he was too late. A beam of vivid blue streaked across the room towards him.

With a nanosecond to spare, Hermione shoved him aside and they fell behind some aisles.

Bellowing with rage, Croaker barrelled past Regan, sparks flying from the end of his wand as he brandished it.

The duel was too fast and confusing for Regan to properly follow. The two wizards cast spell after spell at each other, the pharmacy falling to pieces around them as their ricocheting curses hit the walls. They snarled at each other in what sounded like broken Latin to Regan’s ears and bright, angry colours flew from their wands.

Hermione still hadn’t got up from behind the aisle. Regan desperately hoped she was just laying low for safety’s sake.

‘Vitium!’ Draco shouted, swiping at the air, but Croaker was too fast for him, blocking the spell with one of the aisles.

Regan, seeing Croaker’s back to her, darted sideways and crawled over to get at Hermione.

Hermione looked dazed and Regan felt oddly much more calm than she had in months. This, she knew how to do. Hermione was simply a patient.

‘It’s ok, you’re going to be fine,’ Regan said gently.

Regan felt less calm when she saw that where the curse had nicked Hermione on the arm, a river of blood was gushing.


	37. Chapter 37

_A.N. Okay, I’m using the artistic licence card a little when it comes to medicine in this chapter. While somewhat unrealistic, I hope I’m not stretching the boundaries too much. And to be honest, considering the tropes used in film and TV, I think this is forgivable._

Draco slashed the air with his wand, driving Croaker back with another curse. 

His fear grew as he realised he wouldn’t be able to outduel Croaker. The Unspeakable clearly had an impressive arsenal of curses, even by Draco’s standards; growing up in Slytherin, not to mention being from a family of hardened Death Eaters, his bar had always been set pretty high.

It didn’t help that seeing Hermione wounded mere feet away from him was a pressing distraction. He couldn’t help stealing glances out of the corner of his eye to check that she was okay.

_‘Why are you trying to ruin everything?’_ Croaker hissed, stabbing the air. Cardboard packages to Draco’s right burst in a powdery explosion.

‘We were HAPPY!’ Croaker said, roaring the last word.

Draco’s anger at Croaker hadn’t lessened but now it was almost matched by his fear of him. Clearly this man was far crazier than he had realised, and if Draco had learnt nothing else from his Aunt Bella it was that crazy people could be lethal in their unpredictability.

Deciding it was best not to answer, Draco put all his efforts instead into hexing Croaker within an inch of his life.

_‘Crucio!’_ Croaker cried and this time it hit Draco square in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, his wand falling from his hand as agony wracked his body.

When the pain stopped, Croaker was standing almost on top of him, face lit up with delighted mania. In panic, Draco reached for his wand but he was far too slow and Croaker cursed him again.

Pain, unimaginably intense pain, coursed through every muscle in his body; on the blurred edge of his consciousness, he made out Croaker circling around him like a cat deciding which part of the mouse to eat first.

Then, inexplicably, the pain stopped and Croaker, with a look of utter bemusement, crumbled.

Sticking out of the side of his neck was a needle of some sort.

Still shaking, Draco managed to prop himself up onto his elbows.

‘Thanks,’ he said to the trembling Muggle in the long white coat who had been standing behind Croaker. Draco had no idea how he could have done it, but the Muggle had obviously done something to knock Croaker out. The Muggle nodded nervously; he eyed Draco’s wand with great apprehension before bending down next to Hermione.

Draco dragged himself up and joined Regan and the Muggle and Hermione’s side.

She looked awful, ashen from blood loss in spite of the tight bandages that Regan had secured.

The wounds itself were fairly easy to heal; Draco didn’t do the neatest of jobs, leaving a scar where a proper Healer would have mended the gash completely. There was nothing, however, he could do to replenish her blood. The only way to do that would be with a potion, which Draco didn’t have.

‘I tried to phone to police,’ the Muggle said. ‘But there’s a problem with the line. In emergencies, we phone a helicopter to come from the mainland because we don’t have a hospital, but…’ he gestured uselessly at the black object similar to one Draco had seen Hermione talk into before. Given the amount of magic he and Croaker had just cast around the area, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if most of the technology within a few miles was malfunctioning.

Helplessly, he saw Hermione spiral away from him.

‘She needs a transfusion,’ Regan said. ‘She won’t make it otherwise.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘And you don’t have any blood here?’ she begged the pharmacist. 

‘No,’ the pharmacist said. He hesitated. ‘But-‘

He cut himself of, shaking his head.

‘What?’ Regan demanded while Draco had to stop himself physically shaking the man to get the answer out.

‘It’s highly irregular, I would never usually suggest something like this-‘

‘Spit it out!’ Draco snarled.

‘I collect antique medical artefacts,’ the pharmacist said. ‘For display purposes only – or at least in theory – I happen to have a blood transfusion instrument which was used during the First World War.’

It meant nothing to Draco but Regan let out a strangled laugh. 

‘Like I said, I would not normally suggest this but – well, you two appear to be sisters, so the likelihood of your blood types being a match is quite good.’

‘We’re cousins,’ Regan said. ‘But I know her blood type – she’s AB positive, so she could receive blood from anyone, anyway.’

If Draco was following the conversation, they seemed to be talking about putting blood from Regan into Hermione. It was a revolting thought yet Draco had to admit it was a sort of brilliant idea in its crudeness.

‘Get it then,’ Regan said, rolling up her sleeve and rubbing her forearm.

‘You said that anyone could give Hermione blood, no matter what kind of blood they had?’ Draco asked Regan.

She nodded.

‘Then take it from me. I’m in a better state of health than you,’ Draco said quickly before she could argue. ‘And wizards heal faster than Muggles.’ That last part was a lie but Regan had been through enough physical trauma without losing a few pints of blood.

Regan gave Hermione a look of pained sorrow. ‘Okay, then.’

Primitive thought the procedure was, it seemed to work well enough. Colour came back into Hermione’s face and she started to breathe more deeply. The pharmacist was muttering something about infections and aftercare, which made little sense to Draco.

‘You can give her some more, I feel fine,’ Draco said as the pharmacist slid the needle out of Draco’s arm.

He shook his head and Regan put a cup of tea in his hands.

‘You’ll need to replace the iron you’ve lost,’ Regan said. ‘We should get you some fish or chicken to eat.’

‘I’ll take a potion as soon as we get back to England, don’t worry,’ Draco said, rolling down his sleeve and pulling himself to his feet. He did feel rather dizzy, actually.

Hermione made a movement to sit up but Regan held her back.

‘Rest,’ she said firmly.

Draco turned his attention to Croaker, still crumpled on the floor like a discarded piece of clothing.

‘How long will he be unconscious for?’ Draco asked the pharmacist.

‘Midazolam can last between one to six hours,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you could do something to incapacitate him long before he wakes up.’ He indicated hopefully at Draco’s wand

‘Good idea,’ Draco said.

Conjuring the ropes took more out of Draco than it usually would have. Breathing heavily, he leant back against the wall for support.

‘You don’t seem overly perturbed by all this,’ Draco said. ‘Or at least no more so that one would expect after having your shop blown to smithereens.’ He eyed the damage ruefully. ‘For which I am heartily sorry. I’ll pay for the damage, of course.’

The man jerked his head. ‘Everybody knew that there was something off about the man on the hill.’

The similarity to what the Muggle in Wiltshire said made Draco smile despite himself. All the Muggles for miles around had known there was something unsettling about the manor and had duly avoided it.

Croaker safely bound tight, Draco went back over to Hermione. She let her head rest on his shoulder and intertwined her hand with his.

‘We need to get a hold of the Ministry,’ Hermione said quietly. ‘You should try summoning Croaker’s broom, it can’t be far. You can fly to the mainland.’

Draco calmly explained to her that if she thought he was leaving her alone for a single second on this island she was stark raving mad.

She squeezed his hand. ‘Do you have a better idea?’

The most sensible thing to do would have of course been to kill Croaker. As much as Draco loathed the man and as ready as he would have been to finish him off in the heat of battle, coldly ending his life while he was unconscious was quite another thing.

‘None of us are murderers,’ Hermione said, guessing his thoughts.

‘You and Regan should take the broom,’ Draco said. ‘I’ll stand guard here.’

Hermione frowned as she furiously tried to think of another solution, one which didn’t see them separated again. Biting her lip, she eventually nodded.

‘I won’t be long,’ she promised. ‘I don’t think I’m in a fit state to apparate but I can use Croaker’s wand to call the Knight Bus as soon as we land.

* * *

It took an hour and a half for Croaker to wake up.

The pharmacist had allowed Draco to move him to the back room while they waited for Hermione to come back with the Ministry. Draco had sat almost preternaturally still the whole time, wand trained on Croaker.

Croaker looked confused at first, but then his eyes had narrowed in fury as he remembered what had happened and pieced together the rest.

‘Where are my girls?’ he snarled.

‘They’re not yours,’ Draco said. ‘You’ll never hurt them again.’

Croaker wrenched himself sideways, trying to struggle free of the ropes; without a wand, it was useless.

He stopped writhing, mouth falling open in despair, when he spotted the Grimoire in the corner of the room, the blankets it had been wrapped in only partially covering it.

‘You have my book,’ he said.

‘Again, it was never yours,’ Draco said tersely. ‘It’ll go back to the Department of Mysteries, where it belongs.’

‘Do you know how long I’ve waited for it?’ Croaker demanded. ‘I waited my entire life for it to come to this country. I could hardly believe it when they said Qabbilar was accompanying it here.’

‘I’d suggest you find yourself a healthier hobby,’ Draco said. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have precious little time for hobbies in Azkaban.’

Croaker seemed to have forgotten Draco’s existence. He was staring at the book now as though it were his infant child, with adoration bordering on hunger.

The book felt it, too. A dark energy seemed to be emanating from it. Draco gave the thing a brief sideways look of suspicion before turning his attention back to Croaker.

‘It’s addictive, isn’t it?’ Croaker said with a strange smile. ‘You want to look in it. I managed to resist diving straight in. There are rituals to follow, procedures, if you want to get what you need out of the book. I warned Nott about it but he didn’t listen. Thought he was cleverer than I was.’ He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, gently deriding the ways of youth. ‘But people find it difficult, very difficult. Why do you think it moves around so much? It never stays in one country too long.’

It knew it was being talked about. It was impossible, but it knew.

Draco swallowed.

‘What do you want out of it, anyway?’ Draco asked.

Croaker’s look of longing had a sinister quality to it. ‘I’ve been laughed at and rejected my entire life. Let them see how it feels.’

Draco could almost empathise. He might have been superficially popular in school, brighter than average and a decent seeker – but there was a high bar he had set himself, one his father had help him set, one which meant he was constantly trying to measure up to the Chosen One. And always falling short. Trying to be more impressive than Potter had been no small part of the motivation to readily accept the Death Eater mantle after his father’s imprisonment.

_And a Death Eater you’ll be until you die. You’re stained by it._

It was a chilly thought which popped like a bubble in his head.

_You can pretend all you like, but scratch the surface and you’re a coward. Hundreds of brave wizards and witches gave their lives to stop the Dark Lord and all you could do was cower behind your mother’s skirts. Exactly like Lucius._

Draco shook his head and gripped his wand tighter.

Croaker smirked. ‘You can feel it. I can see it in your eyes.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Draco answered coldly.

Croaker laughed to himself. ‘It always speaks the truth, you know. Unpleasant, but it never lies. On the contrary, it pulls back the excess layers, the superfluous exterior, revealing the truest truth there is.’

‘Shut up,’ Draco said.

_So much braver now. Now that you stand against a bound and wandless man._

‘It’s only the book,’ Draco muttered to himself. It certainly didn’t feel like the grimoire. The thoughts flowed seamlessly together with his own. They were all things he might have thought. He probably had at some point.

‘It always reminded me how unlovable I was,’ Croaker said in a very matter-of-fact way. ‘I never got on very well with my family and the only person I ever truly cared for, well, until Regan, of course, left me. The book told me Regan would also leave me. It knew.’ He let out a sigh.

‘You are actually crazy,’ Draco said, highly unnerved.

Croaker paid no attention to the last comment. ‘I wonder what nasty little secret it sees in you. I imagine your parents loved you well enough and you had your pick of paramours in pureblood high society.’ He tilted his head to the side, considering. ‘Although, judging by your preoccupation with Miss Granger, that’s no longer what you want. How interesting!’

‘You don’t get to talk about her!’ Draco said angrily. Without even really thinking, he flicked his wrist, sending a stinging hex across Croaker’s face. The older man let out a hiss of pain but stopped himself from crying out.

_Cursing a man when he’s helpless to fight back. What more can you expect from a Slytherin?_

‘He deserves it,’ Draco said quietly to himself.

__They all deserved it, didn’t they? Katie Bell deserved to hover on the brink of death for months on end. Ronald Weasley deserved to be poisoned the very day he became a man. Albus Dumbledore deserved to die at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

That wasn’t even me!

But it might have been. You were just about to curse him, remember?

At that very moment, Draco couldn’t quite recall whether he had been on the point of lowering his wand of raising it in ready for the curse. He could do it, he knew that much. He had practised on rats in the dungeon the previous summer with Aunt Bella. He remember how feverishly alive her gaunt face had been lit up in green. 

_You’ve always been a bad person, though. Well, perhaps weak is more accurate than evil. You never did anything for any reason other than you were afraid. Afraid if it wasn’t them being bullied, it would be you._

‘Is it reminding you of your past?’ Croaker wondered. ‘You hardly have a shining record, but I suppose the real question is whether that bothers you. Certainly many Death Eaters were only sorry they got caught.

_But with knowledge comes power. Arm yourself with the right weapons and you need never be afraid or helpless or weak again._

Draco remembered with stunning clarity what his seventh year had been like. Wanting to go home during the holidays to be with his parents during this difficult time. And not wanting to. Wanting to stay as far away as possible. Considering fleeing the country. Wondering what New York was like. There were almost as many wizards there as London.

_I don’t have to be that person._

Draco looked again at the book. It was overflowing the arcane knowledge. If he could study it, nobody would ever be able to hurt him. He could protect himself, protect Hermione, protect his family. He would be truly safe.

Draco looked back at Croaker.

‘It can’t lie,’ Croaker reminded. ‘It doesn’t know how.’

Draco edged over to the book, still keeping his wand up.

The grimoire was really rather beautiful. The elaborate scarlet title curled, snakelike, across the page.

‘Even if I were of a mind to stop you, I don’t think it would do much good at this point,’ Croaker said, sounding amused.

Draco glared furiously at Croaker. Of course the vile little man wanted to stop him. This book was the most powerfully magical artefact in the country. Croaker wanted to keep all that power for himself.

Running his fingers softly over the spine, Draco flipped the cover open.

It was blank.

Pages and pages of unblemished ivory flew through Draco’s fingers as he sought what he needed.

‘What did you do to it?’ he shouted at Croaker. ‘Where has it all gone?’

Croaker only laughed.


	38. Chapter 38

A.N Naughty chapter! Finally, finally, for those who’ve been waiting for the Dramione smut, here it is!

‘I’m going with the Ministry,’ Hermione told the Healer, wrenching her arm free.

‘Miss Granger, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal.’ the Healer said in a gratingly soothing tone. ‘We can’t possibly allow you-’

‘You can’t keep me here against my will,’ Hermione said, her hair flying as she strode out of the room. The Healer looked shocked and somewhat reproachful. 

The Healers had given her and Regan a quick lookover and a half-dozen potions each before Hermione managed to get away. She was grateful for her restored strength and glad Regan was being safely transferred to St Mungo’s, where she could rest, but she needed to get back to Draco. She hated to think what might happen to him if Croaker got free.

‘Harry!’ she cried, seeing him emerging from the Auror Headquarters and starting to jog towards him. ‘Thank Merlin I caught you before you left!’

‘You can’t-’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Hermione warned. ‘I won’t accept it, not from you. 

He managed a smile. ‘The portkey’s going to take us to the island in two minutes. We better hurry up.’

Draco and Croaker still hadn’t moved from their original positions except for the fact that the latter was now awake and struggling in vain to free himself. Hermione felt her whole body sag from relief as the Aurors took control of the situation. 

They were safe, they were finally safe!

Croaker gave her a look of intense loathing as he fought like a rabid dog, but there was nothing he could do anymore.

Harry came up to talk to her and Draco.

‘You two will be wanted for questioning at some point in the next few days but for now you can just go home. The Ministry will be sure to let you know when you’re needed.’ He couldn’t suppress an eye roll here. 

Their portkey took them back to London.

The city was damp and smoggy and a busy stranger immediately collided with Hermione as soon as she walked into the street. She had never loved the place more.

‘It hasn’t changed,’ she murmured to herself. ‘London, I mean.’

Draco looked at her hard for a moment before pulling her into a warm hug. He smelled of sweat and soap, coffee and coconut, of normality. Hermione couldn’t begin to wrap her head around what normality was anymore. She’d been a slave, unsure of whether she would survive the next day or if Croaker would have a mood swing and murder her. 

‘It’s over now,’ Draco whispered into her hair. In response, she tightened her grip on the back of his shirt. When he said it, it was easy to believe.

Hermione managed to hold herself together until she got home. Sitting in her living room, a place she’d always felt safe, she wondered if she would ever feel safe again.

She sat down on the couch with no idea what to do with herself. She’d fallen out of the habit of managing her own time.

Draco lit the fire in the grate and sat down next to her, pulling a blanket over her shoulders.

‘I’m not cold,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘It just seemed to be the sort of thing I should do. What – what can I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just hold me, please.’

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing until his shirt was soaked through.

* * *

Hermione couldn’t remember falling asleep but when she woke up the embers were burning low. Draco was dozing next to her on the couch, feet pulled up slightly because it wasn’t quite long enough for him.

Careful not to disturb him, she got up to get a glass of water and sat in front of the dying fire, sipping it. 

Draco looked peaceful asleep, just like sleepers were supposed to look. Hermione couldn’t imagine managing to let her muscles untense like that, leaving herself exposed.

Some primordial part of Draco must have alerted him to the fact he was being watched, because he began to stir, opening his eyes. Hermione forced a smile at him.

‘You should try and get some more sleep,’ he said. ‘You look like you haven’t slept properly in months.’

She hadn’t but Hermione shook her head and put her water to one side. Uncertainly, gingerly, she reached for Draco and pulled him towards her, finding his mouth in the half-darkness and surrendering herself to his kisses.

After a few moments of wariness, she felt him give in, too, melting into her embrace. His shoulders pushed against her palms, all earnestness and need. 

He lifted her, pulling her onto his lap.

Hermione had wanted to feel safe, wanted to bury herself in Draco. What surprised her was the burn of desire which accompanied her need for closeness. 

He exhaled sharply as her fingers trailed over his crotch.

With desperation, they took off each other’s clothes, grasping and kissing wherever they could reach. His body was exactly as she remembered, slender, with long, graceful muscles and so pale it seemed to glow in the low light, contrasting against her darker skin. With unbearable gentleness, Draco leant Hermione backwards and took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue in circles.

Hermione yanked at his silky soft hair and whimpered. 

‘Bite me!’ she breathed.

Draco didn’t need asking twice. Grey eyes studying her reaction with delight, his teeth grazed her, softly at first, and then harder, until she cried out, heat blooming between her legs.

Unable to wait any longer, she bucked her hips with a petulance that made him smirk, then took his hand and guided it downwards. The amusement left his eyes as she took his erection in hand and started pumping steadily. Lips parted, he shuddered and kissed her on the mouth hard, making her lips bleed. He placed his free hand on top of hers, adjusting the rhythm slightly. Immediately, he felt even harder and Hermione heard a sigh of longing escape her own lips.

‘Merlin,’ he groaned in her ear.

She pulled back so that they were facing each other. She wanted to look him in the eyes as she lowered herself down onto him, pulling him deep inside her for the first time. His expression didn’t disappoint; he looked both overwhelmed and fierce with passion.

Hermione couldn’t help but moan as she took him all the way in, filling and stretching her in a way that made her whole body hum. 

They moved together with urgency, each roll of the hips sending a new current of pleasure racing through Hermione.

‘I can’t last,’ Draco murmured, his face crunching. ‘It’s been too long.’

Before she could respond, he rubbed his thumb along the meeting of thighs, massaging the swollen flesh until it seemed to sing. Her orgasm had a strangely cleansing effect on her, like cauterising a wound; the heat rippled along her extremities as she felt Draco join her, throbbing inside her and clawing at her hips. 

She sank weakly against him, tangling her fingers in the transparently fair hair on his chest.

‘I needed that,’ she said quietly.

‘I think we both did.’

Still shaking and looking slightly dazed, Hermione thought she had never seen anything as beautiful as Draco naked, the tenderness in his eyes belying his smirk.

She ran her hands lazily over his body, gently exploring. She frowned as she found a raised groove on his back.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, sitting up so he could see it better. A large, angry-looking sore had opened up on his back, a few inches below his left shoulder.

‘I don’t know,’ Draco said in surprise, reaching his arm around to feel it for himself. ‘It must be where Croaker caught me yesterday. I didn’t feel it at the time.’

Hermione relaxed. It didn’t look too bad. They would just have to make sure they got the right potion for it the next day.


	39. Chapter 39

A.N. This is a bit of a trippy chapter. Hope you enjoy the weirdness of it!   
In other news, the end is in sight for this story. There’s another five or six chapters to go, which I hope won’t take me too long!

* * * *

_Draco was walking through a cobbled alleyway, following a voice. Something was just a few feet in front of him, beckoning him into the shadows. The voice was old and awfully familiar; it smelled of fresh flowers and lullabies._

He woke up drenched in sweat.

Hermione was already awake, if she had slept at all. Standing rigidly on the balcony, she looked like a sentinel keeping watch. She probably was.

He joined her, wrapping his arms around her, trying to make her feel safe. Closing her eyes, she let him try.

Hermione had been quiet that day. She had been to visit her parents earlier and had returned shaken and despondent. The guilt of what she had put them through weighed heavily on her.

‘They thought I was dead,’ she said softly. ‘How many times am I going to make my parents think I’m dead? Or that I never existed at all?’ she said with a self-deprecating laugh.

He tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault but the words dried up uselessly on his tongue.

‘They wanted me to stay with them for a few days. I couldn’t face it. All the fuss they’d make. They wouldn’t give me a second’s peace, I know,’ she sighed, burying her face in her hands.

Draco found nothing meaningful to say and held her hand as she stared into the distance.

Trauma wasn’t the sort of thing which could disappear overnight.

_Darkness and rot and despair and pain. A cloying stench slunk into his nostrils and sloshed around in his brain._

Draco shook his head. He felt distracted.

At least twice in the night he would wake up shaking, dizzy and petrified for no good reason. Always pale, now a ghost stared back at him in the mirror, a phantom with dark circles under its eyes.

‘You’re not well,’ Hermione told him, clutching at her cup of tea like she was afraid it would be taken off her. ‘You need to see a Healer.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Draco said with a feeble attempt at a grin. ‘I’m just a bit under the weather.

He went to the bathroom, taking a candle with him. He couldn’t stand the glaring fluorescent lights that the idiot Muggles who had built the place had installed. He turned on the water but couldn’t decide if he wanted it hot or cold; he was both chilled to the bone and feverish.

As he took his jumper off, he glanced behind him, glimpsing his back in the mirror. Eight or nine large sores, angry and painful dotted his back. There was also two on his chest, one on his stomach and a handful of smaller ones on his right leg. Half of them had not been there yesterday.

His stomach dropped and his heart thundered with fear. He promised himself he would go straight to hospital the next day, but he knew there would be little they could do. They hadn’t been able to do anything to help Nott, after all. 

Draco had been to visit Miss Ella Nott the day before and she had tearfully told him that her nephew had been transferred to Rockall, an uninhabited islet in the North Atlantic that the Ministry had recently designated to store nuisance Dementors. The diagnosis was obvious.

Draco ought to have left Hermione by now. For one thing, it wouldn’t be long before he became an unmanageable monster like Nott; another was that he didn’t know if his condition was contagious. He felt too dirty to be around her.

He turned the water up to the maximum temperature, trying to scald his skin clean.

The only thing holding him back was that Hermione had just suffered horrifically and he didn’t want her to be alone right now. It would have been so much easier if she had agreed to stay over her parents.

Well, no if he was honest, that wasn’t the only thing holding Draco back. The truth was that he was terrified. He was sliding towards something worse than death and he couldn’t bear to face it on his own. He wanted solace for as long as he could get it.

‘Draco, do you want-?’ Hermione started, opening the door suddenly. She stopped once she saw Draco. ‘Merlin,’ she whispered softly, her eyes raking over Draco’s skin. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I-’ Draco started, grappling with a thousand excuses. ‘Because I’m a coward, I suppose.’

Hermione shook her head fiercely.

‘Come on, we’re going straight to St Mungo’s,’ she said.

‘There’s really no point,’ Draco said wearily.

‘What makes you say that?’

Draco didn’t want to answer her. He grabbed his towel and started drying off, slowly, as though he could avoid answering her question.

‘Draco?’

‘Whatever Nott has, I have it,’ Draco told her. ‘And we both know what Nott has become.’

There was a beat of silence. ‘Why do you think you have it?’ Hermione asked, her voice tiny and lost.

‘Because I looked in the bloody book,’ Draco said, squeezing his eyes shut, loathing himself. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I just had to.’

He sat down on the edge of the bath, feeling lost. He should have left then, he knew, but he desperately prayed that she wouldn’t let him, that she’d stay with him through the worst of it.

‘We’ll find a cure,’ Hermione said, taking Draco’s head in her hands. ‘They must have learnt something from studying Nott, even if it was too late for him. It won’t be too late for you. And if St Mungo’s can’t help us, we’ll try St Aube in Paris, or Jauncey in New York or somewhere else,’ she said. ‘Someone will have an answer.’

_The flowers were dying. Pinks and reds and yellows turned to grey and were swept away by the wind. Birds cut off mid-song and plummeted to the ground. Fruit become ash. The sun was lost. He looked down and saw the bones in his hands blazing underneath the surface of his skin. The rivers of his veins had dried up._

He could barely sleep now.

His eyelids burned.

He looked at Hermione, who was talking to a Healer. Draco was sure he’d been introduced to the man but he couldn’t remember his name.

Hermione saw that Draco was awake and smiled at him, walking away from the Healer.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been better,’ Draco rasped. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Three days.’

Three days – making it a week since he had opened that accursed book. This thing moved so fast.

‘They said the curse or whatever it is isn’t progressing in exactly the same way as Nott’s did,’ Hermione told him. ‘That’s a positive, isn’t it? If each case is different, your prognosis could well be much more optimistic than his.’

‘We have no way of knowing that,’ Draco said. ‘All that proves is it’s unpredictable.’

Hermione put her hand on his face and stared so intensely at him that it was almost a glare.

‘Don’t you dare give up,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare!’

But how could Draco fight something so overpowering? So intangible? 

‘We’ll find a way,’ Hermione said. ‘But you can’t give up. Because I love you too much for that.’

Draco wanted to tell her that he loved her back but his throat had dried up and there was a mist behind his eyes. The room was retreating to the end of a long corridor.

_Tears are made of acid now. They carve through the face, eroding away your cheeks. And Draco sits in a garden of weeds, last year’s nettles curled around his bare ankles. The floor is littered with thorns and the corpses of bumblebees._

Draco sees himself when he wakes up.

Pain is gnawing at every inch of his skin and at the end of the bed he sees himself, tired and old but healthy at least.

‘Am I dead?’ Draco asks himself.

‘Your mother was here a minute ago,’ his other self says, nearing the bed cautiously and then hesitating. ‘I ought to bring her back while you’re awake.’

‘Don’t go,’ Draco begs. ‘Stay!’

His other self comes closer to the bed.

‘Of course,’ his other voice says. ‘I’m here.’

His other self smells of childhood, of peppermint and peacocks, mahogany and new silk and elf wine and crackling fires.

‘I don’t suppose I ever told you enough how much I loved you. I tended to leave that job up to your mother.’

Draco laughed out loud, tearing his throat to shreds. He was telling himself he loved him. Merlin, what a narcissist he was!

_The ceiling and the floor and all of the walls are smooth and charcoal and hard. Everything is hard. And dark. This little room which shrinks every day has nothing in it. Not even light. On the outside, occasionally, a voice slips through, tinny and far away._

‘Draco, can you hear me?’


	40. Chapter 40

‘Have you heard anything else from the Healers?’ Ginny asked gently. She and Harry had come over with fresh fruit, slices of homemade pie, milk, half a chicken and warm bread. Hermione hadn’t realised how hungry she had been until they put some pie directly beneath her nose.

Hermione shook her head. ‘Since his parents turned up, they’ve requested any visitors be authorised by them.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘Surprisingly enough, I’m not on the VIP list. They won’t tell me anything.’

‘They can do that?’ Ginny asked incredulously.

‘Given how much gold old Lucius has donated to the hospital over the years, I imagine he can do pretty much what he wants,’ Harry commented darkly. 

Harry’s anger on her behalf meant a lot to Hermione. Harry might not have understood or approved of their relationship, but as her friend he had accepted how important Draco was to her.

The only tenuous link Hermione now had to Draco was through Padma Patil, who, after a considerable amount of persuasion, had agreed to break the Healer Code of Confidentiality and tell Hermione how Draco was if she knew. Unfortunately, as a trainee healer specialising in creature-induced injuries, the chances of Padma learning much about the case was pretty slim.

Hermione had taken to spending a lot of time in the waiting room, hoping to corner one of Draco’s visitors. She knew she wouldn’t get far with Lucius but a small part of her prayed that Narcissa might find it in her heart to tell her something. So far, the only success Hermione had had was to see Pansy Parkinson sashay down from Draco’s room, looking like a crow, head to foot in black lace with a netted veil over her face.

‘You see, we were practically betrothed,’ Pansy was telling the Welcome Witch with a tortured sigh. ‘Seeing him like that…’ She shook her head.

Hermione sunk down deeper into her seat so as not be spotted and raised her magazine to cover her face, secretly seething with rage.

‘Well, at least he’ll be able to die in the comfort of his own home. That’s where he belongs,’ Pansy whispered.

Hermione nearly dropped her magazine, terror clenching in her belly. She told herself that it meant nothing, that Pansy was hamming it up to get sympathy, but the words chilled her nonetheless.

As soon Pansy had swanned out, sobbing into her handkerchief, Hermione scrabbled to find Padma.

‘I’m up to my eyeballs at the minute, Hermione,’ Padma said reproachfully, indicating at her patient, who had greenish slime oozing from ever pore.

‘I know, I’m sorry but-‘ Hermione stopped, casting a glance at the patient.

‘Oh, you can say what you like in front of Mr Noah, he doesn’t know what day it is,’ Padma said dismissively.

‘Well, I’ve just heard that Draco was being moved back to the Manor. Is that true?’

Padma sighed, pouring a potion the colour and consistency of hot tar onto a spoon.

‘You need to take this, Mr Noah,’ Padma said, hovering the spoon in front of his lips.

The man shook his head vigorously, sending droplets of slime spraying everywhere. Hermione jumped back a foot.

‘Don’t be silly, Mr Noah, it’s not that bad,’ Padma said in a placating tone. ‘I’m not entirely sure what’s happening with Draco Malfoy,’ Padma said to Hermione. ‘But it would make sense for him to go home. Healer Rogue mentioned this morning that the biggest problem with Nott towards the end was containing him. A whole section of the hospital had to be cordoned off. They don’t want that again.’

Hermione nodded. Malfoy Manor certainly had plenty of space and strong magical protection to keep Draco secure if it came to that.

‘But he’s not – I mean, they haven’t given up on him?’ Hermione asked.

Padma shrugged. ‘I really wouldn’t know.’ She gave Hermione a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’

As a last resort, Hermione even tried sending an owl to Narcissa, asking how Draco was doing, but she had no response.

Towards the end of the week, Hermione went to see Regan, who’d been staying over her parents’ house. Her Aunt Portia and Uncle Walt had seemed loth to leave Regan alone unattended but eventually the former must have sensed that Hermione needed a private conversation because she suggested to her husband they take a stroll to make the most of the warm evening. Uncle Walt kissed Regan on the forehead before leaving.

‘How much have you told them?’ Hermione asked.

Regan smiled and pulled her knees up to her chest. ‘About all the magic and stuff? Nothing, really. I don’t know if they’ve figured it out. They never really understood about you being a witch, though. They thought you just had a group of hippy friends and danced around under the full moon. They probably haven’t made any connection between that and us being held prisoners for months on end.’

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Hermione said.

Regan nodded, fidgeting. She never used to fidget but now she was skittish and tightly wound. Hermione could relate; it would take a long time for either of them to let go of what had happened. At least three times a day she thought she saw Croaker’s face in the crowd and her nights were plagued with dreams of locked rooms and bound wrists.

‘We’ll get there in the end,’ Regan said, aiming for optimism. ‘How’s Draco? You said he was unwell.’

‘Worse than unwell,’ Hermione said. Of its own accord, her throat tightened, strangling her words. She swallowed. ‘He’s suffering some sort of curse. It came from looking in that book.’

‘But why would he have done that?’ Regan asked.

‘It’s an evil thing, it twists your mind,’ Hermione said. ‘Draco’s suffering from the same thing as Theo Nott. I keep hoping that now the Ministrt have the Grimoire, they’ll be able to find some sort of cure, but the Department of Mysteries has been studying it since Merlin knows when and I doubt they really understand it. I think it takes a very Dark wizard to be able to use the book like it’s meant to be used.’

Regan hesitated. ‘I don’t think Croaker got very far but I suppose he could know something.’

‘He could,’ Hermione agreed. ‘But he’s already been transported to Azkaban and getting permission to interview a prisoner takes time that Draco doesn’t have.’

‘What-?’ Regan gave a little laugh. ‘I suppose you’ll think it’s ridiculous me even asking, but what are his symptoms? Maybe I can suggest something.’

Hermione smiled. ‘It’s not ridiculous.’

It wasn’t ridiculous but it was futile. Regan hadn’t been exposed to the magical world for nearly a decade, only caught a glimpse of it, so she couldn’t know the power of it, how it defied logic most of the time. A prescription couldn’t help Draco.

And so she went home, reluctantly and with a heavy heart. She never used to mind being alone but after so much enforced solitude her own company felt like a punishment. She had tried going out to the pub a couple of times but if anything that was worse. Being in the company of people who laughed and joked and grinned had become unbearably lonely.

At home, she pulled Draco’s cloak over her shoulders, his favourite one with silver snakes for a clasp, and fell asleep in front of the fire.


	41. Chapter 41

Lucius thought the worst thing that could ever happen to him had already happened. 

He was wrong.

Watching his only son being stripped of his humanity made what he had suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord seem downright pleasant. 

Draco snarled and snapped at the house elves who attended him while Lucius watched from the shadows of the dungeon, afraid to get too close, afraid to catch the attention of those empty, starving eyes.

When he wasn’t watching over Draco, Lucius was in the library, poring over ancient tomes and dark chronicles. It was the first time in his life that the Malfoy Library had failed to provide Lucius with an answer.

‘You should go to bed, my love.’

The gentle touch of Narcissa’s hand on his back startled him out of his doze.

Lucius looked up at her, her hair unkempt for once, her face showing its age.

‘I have to do everything I can,’ Lucius said, turning his attention back to the book. 

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Healer Muller will be here first thing in the morning. They say he’s the best.

That didn’t seem good enough somehow.

He turned back to the stack of books in front of him, leafing through the Greek and Latin ones after he had exhausted the English. He found focusing increasingly difficult but hadn’t realised he had fallen asleep until he woke up, a blanket draped over him.

Healer Muller was a good-humoured, rather loquacious man with a snow-white moustache and a shining bald head. He talked at length in a strong German accent about his experience with curses of all varieties as they made their way to the basement. Narcissa looked reassured but Lucius found it difficult to warm to him.

‘So this is our patient,’ Healer Muller said softly, stepping towards Draco. His voice bounced around the dungeons. ‘I see he’s safely secured.’

As if to challenge this, Draco lurched violently to the right, rattling the chains. The clanging noise made Narcissa wince.

‘Has he spoken?’ Muller asked.

‘Not for a couple of days,’ Narcissa said. ‘Before that the house elves said he would sometimes mutter under his breath but they didn’t understand the language.’

‘Ah, how interesting!’ Muller said.

Lucius gripped his wand tightly in his robe pocket. The fascination on Muller’s face, as though Draco were a new specimen to examine, was infuriating.

Muller made a slow circle around Draco. Draco’s head followed his path.

His eyes, the steely Malfoy hue present in so many of the portraits about the manor, had clouded over completely, leaving Draco blind, but still somehow able to sense the man’s presence. His neck cracked as his head twisted in the air like a cobra preparing to strike.

‘I wouldn’t get to close,’ Lucius said coldly.

Draco’s head swivelled towards Lucius’ voice. It was the first time he had spoken in Draco’s presence since the hospital. Draco opened his mouth wide and let out a wailing rasp, both mournful and menacing.

Narcissa grabbed Lucius’ hand. Glancing over, he saw she had turned completely white.

‘Very, very unusual,’ Muller mused. ‘But I believe I have read about something like this before. A case in the Ukraine, I think.’ He smiled at Lucius and Narcissa. ‘I believe I can set your boy right.’

Lucius inclined his head while Narcissa tremulously offered her sincere thanks. Leaving Muller alone to conduct his tests, they headed upstairs.

Narcissa was in a much brighter mood; she hummed to herself as she sat next to the fire with her embroidery. Lucius didn’t have the heart to keep her enthusiasm in check.

A few days passed. Muller advised them not to go down to the dungeons each time he emerged but he seemed increasingly optimistic every time he came up.

‘I had a patient once, a young lady who had been gifted cursed earrings by a scorned admirer. Beautiful diamond earrings. But the moment she put them in she went deaf. Blood was streaming from her ears; it was quite disgusting. But I managed to get them out in the end and she is fully recovered,’ Muller said, smiling indulgently at Narcissa. ‘This duck is marvellous, by the way. My compliments to your house elf!’

On the fourth day, Muller didn’t join them for lunch.

‘He must be distracted by his work,’ Narcissa said, frowning, twisting her long fingers around her wrist. ‘I’ll go and see how things are going along.’

Lucius could not have felt what filled him with sudden foreboding except for the fact that he was so on edge that everything seemed more sharply contrasted than before. The tick of the clock seemed louder, the smoke of the candles more visible than usual, every smell overpowering. Little deviations seemed huge.

‘I’ll check,’ Lucius said quickly. ‘You sit down, Darling.’

She smiled at him as he walked past her, brushing her hand against his. Things had been tense between them since the war; it was strange that their current situation brought them together. Then again, Draco was the most important thing they had in common, the thing they could always agree on.

The dungeons were always an eerie place, but Lucius had never minded eerie things. Yet, his stomach clenched painfully this time as he descended.

‘Healer Muller?’ He called on his way down. ‘Healer Muller, lunch is ready.’

There was no answer.

When Lucius reached the bottom step, he saw the good Healer on the floor, his head bent back too far, his face bloody.

Lucius looked upwards.

Draco was still in chains but his face dripped with blood, supposedly not his own. He grinned, revealing teeth stained red. A small chunk of tissue was caught in one of his incisors. 

Draco’s mouth made movements as though it were trying to speak but no words came out, only a high, rasping screech.

Lucius didn’t dare move closer to the body. Besides, the man was clearly dead.


	42. Chapter 42

Regan had asked to come and visit Hermione. Even though Hermione would have rather been alone than muster the energy to deal with a guest, she didn’t want to put her cousin off for fear of hampering her recovery.

‘I’ve been reading up on Dementors and I think I have an idea,’ Regan said as soon as she came in. She still wasn’t the bright, carefree young woman she’d been half a year ago and in all likelihood she would never be again, but neither did she look half a ghost anymore.

‘You’ve been reading up on Dementors,’ Hermione echoed, confused.

‘Ginny came to visit me and I asked her if she could get me some books,’ Regan said. She unzipped her rucksack and pulled out three heavy tomes.

Hermione sat opposite Regan, wary but intrigued despite herself. She had dismissed any Muggle solutions to Draco’s condition out of hand but perhaps she had been hasty in doing so. Anyway, since Healers were refusing to go anywhere near Draco for fear of their lives since Muller had been killed, they seemed to be running out of options.

‘I can’t believe you still want to be involved in this stuff,’ Hermione said, smiling. 

‘In some ways, I’m just looking for a distraction,’ Regan said. ‘But I’m a doctor, remember – and most of us are in it to help people. Someone I know is very sick, I’m trying to do what I can. And he saved us,’ she finished simply.

Hermione nodded. He had saved them. She’d known he’d had it in him to be brave and she loved him for finding the strength he needed to do it.

‘So I was thinking, maybe it would help if we compared this to non-magical illnesses,’ Regan continued.

‘Is there a non-magical illnesses like being a Dementor?’ Hermione asked doubtfully.

‘Haven’t you ever felt as though hope didn’t exist?’ Regan asked.

Of course she had. They both had. There had been no Dementors anywhere near the cottage but the similarity in the feeling was uncanny. Happiness had died, she could no longer remember what it felt like, any sense of hope crushing, broken-winged, after the first few weeks. 

‘Depression,’ Hermione said.

‘Exactly,’ Regan said. ‘So why don’t we treat it like that?’

‘What do you mean, pump him full of Prozac?’ Hermione asked.

Regan grinned. ‘You’re not a million miles off.’

‘But I can’t even be sure that this is the same curse that was inflicted on Nott,’ Hermione warned. ‘I haven’t seen Draco in weeks, since he was still lucid. Who knows how his condition is now. And given how foul the Grimoire is, it might have a thousand deadly curses to inflict on people.’

Hermione wondered for a bit if there was anyone who might know but nothing came to mind. The only Healing expert who had been near enough to Draco to make any sort of valid diagnosis was dead.

Regan nodded slowly. ‘As mad as it sounds, and as little as I want to do so, can we get close to Draco? See for ourselves?’ She seemed to steel herself with determination even as fear bloomed in her eyes.

‘I don’t-’ Hermione started before stopping suddenly, inhaling sharply. ‘Actually there is a way for us to get into the manor without Lucius and Narcissa knowing. But are you sure you want to come with me?’ she asked Regan seriously. ‘We’d be going to a place rife with serious dark magic.’

Regan nodded again. ‘I might be of use. A fresh pair of eyes. But we shouldn’t go just the two of us – would your friend, Harry, be willing to help you out again?’

‘After the number of times I’ve saved his life, he better be,’ Hermione said, feeling herself grin. In spite of everything, it felt good to be coming up with a plan.

Her first instinct was to send Harry and Ginny an owl – but there was both a faster way and one that couldn’t be intercepted if the Ministry took it into their heads to watch her.

Thankfully, since being rescued she’d managed to get Regan added to the list of Muggles in front of whom it was acceptable to do magic, a list which was usually reserved for parents and siblings of Muggle-borns.

Patronuses had never been the easiest of magic for Hermione to master. Compared with the ease with which most spells had come to her, it was slightly frustrating. Perhaps it had something to do with following her head rather than her heart, or her fear of failure bubbling underneath the surface. Now, after everything she’d gone through, it seemed impossible.

_It needn’t be a very strong patrons,_ she reminded herself. As long as it took a corporeal shape, no matter how pale, it would get the message across.

She thought instinctively of Draco. Of how she felt before realising how ill he was. When all she knew was that they were finally united and nothing could tear them apart. His presence had lit a candle in her terrible darkness.

‘ _Expecto Patronum,_ ’ Hermione said firmly and clearly, clinging onto the memory and trying not to let her happiness turn to bitterness on account of how brief their time together had been.

From the end of her wand sprang the silvery substance that cast a soft glow through the room.

Hermione lowered her wand and relayed her message. 

The dragon nodded its scaly head and took wing, streaking through the air far too fast for any Muggle observers to notice more than a glimmer that might have been mistaken for sunshine.

‘Do they always look like dragons?’ Regan asked curiously, enchanted, as so many always were, by the beautiful patronus. 

Hermione shook her head. ‘Mine never used to be. It’s a recent development.’

‘Because of Draco?’ Regan guessed. ‘Well, it’s a little on the nose, but I suppose it’s sweet.’

As expected, Harry and Ginny turned up within ten minutes. Unexpectedly, Ron was with them. He hung awkwardly back, looking about the room.

‘I was having dinner of theirs,’ Ron said by way of an explanation, jerking his head towards Harry and his sister. ‘It sounds like you really need help.’

Hermione smiled at him, a true smile that melted away at least some of the awkwardness. Ron might not have had the eloquence or that emotional perspicacity to say as much, but he would always love her, after a certain fashion. And, after a certain fashion, she would always love him. They had been through too much not to mean a great deal to each other.

‘Thank you,’ she told him simply.

Ginny cleared her throat. ‘So now that we’ve got all the weirdness between you two out the way with, should we actually come up with a plan?’

It was decided that they would leave that evening. Even though there was no telling when Draco might be left unsupervised, they had to work on the assumption that he was more likely to be on his own at night.

‘I have the authority to set up a portkey, so don’t worry about that,’ Harry said. ‘Obviously we won’t be able to apparate with a Muggle and it’s faster than going by broomstick.’

‘Whew,’ Regan muttered. She hadn’t been a fan of flying.

‘What strikes me as the most bizarre,’ Ginny said, looking intrigued. ‘Is that there’s a way for any random person to just waltz into Malfoy Manor. I would have thought they’d have higher security than that.’

‘Not just anyone,’ Hermione said with a smile. ‘Only certain people are able to use this entrance. You’ll see.’


	43. Chapter 43

They stood at the entrance of a small, run-down church which was camouflaged so effectively by weeds and ivy it wouldn’t even have needed a Muggle-repelling charm to keep unwanted visitors at bay. Not that it didn’t probably have plenty of that, Ginny thought; the whole place stank of Dark Magic.

‘I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find it again,’ Hermione said, relief breaking over her face.

Inside, the air was unnaturally chilly after the warm June breeze outside, but it was the scenes of fire and brimstone on the walls which really made Ginny’s blood run cold. _This is what Muggles are,_ the church seemed to be saying sombrely. Panicky, suspicious, irrational beasts who needed to be protected from themselves. She was forcibly reminded of her sixth-year Muggle Studies class, when Alecto Carrow would talk at them with vicious delight about Muggle characteristics.

‘You know, you can tell by the shape of the head,’ she had said one lesson thoughtfully. She was sitting on her desk, stubby little legs swinging like she was a little girl. ‘That’s how they can tell who the ancient Wizards were when they look at skeletons.’

‘That, or the fact that we’re buried with our wands,’ Colin muttered sarcastically at Ginny’s right. It had been a quiet classroom and his whisper had unfortunately carried.

Ginny shook her head, tearing her eyes away from the gory image of a handsome wizard twisted in agony as he was tortured on the rack.

‘So how do we get to the secret passageway?’ Harry asked.

‘Blood,’ Hermione said simply.

‘Anyone’s blood or does it have to be pure blood?’ Ginny asked darkly.

‘It has to be Malfoy blood,’ Hermione said.

Harry and Ginny exchanged confused looks.

‘Er, Hermione,’ Ron started. ‘I hate to rain on your parade, but-‘

‘Will it be enough?’ Regan asked, cutting through Ron. ‘It was only a few pints. Most of your blood’s still yours.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Hermione said, pulling out a small knife and cutting her hand by the altar. Blood welled up and dripped downwards onto the wood.

Ron looked aghast from Hermione to Regan. ‘A few pints? How do you have a few pints of – you know what, I don’t want to know,’ he finished, running a hand through his hair and looking faintly sick. Ginny felt exactly the same. She knew that Muggle doctors ran to madness and were just as likely to lop your leg off as to heal it, but she didn’t know they put blood from one person into another. She glanced over to Harry but he looked thoughtfully confused.

The wood melted away to reveal a steep, narrow staircase.

‘Let’s get going then,’ Ginny said, being the first to walk down the steps into the darkness. ‘Sooner we get this over this, the sooner we can all return to our quiet, normal lives.’

‘Whose quiet, normal life are you talking about?’ Harry asked. ‘Ginny Weasley, do you have a secret life I don’t know about?’

The further down the tunnel they travelled, the harder it got to make jokes. Even with their wands lighting the way, there was an inky darkness to the corners.

A beam of light suddenly burst out, travelling much further than the light of their wands.

Ginny glanced incredulously at Regan.

‘Found my torch,’ Regan said with forced levity.

‘I’ll have to get my dad one of those,’ Ginny said.

It was a long walk. Or perhaps it was the fact that they knew what awaited them made it seem long.

‘I hope you’re all prepared for this,’ Hermione said as they got to the end of the tunnel and were about to enter the dungeon. ‘Because I’m certainly not.’

Instinctively, Ginny touched Hermione lightly on the upper arm. ‘We’re here for you.’ She would have suggested Hermione stay behind in the corridor but she knew it wouldn’t have gone down well.

The dungeons were cavernous and gloomy. They were exactly what fairy-tale dungeons were supposed to look like, complete with shackled on the walls and a few random instruments of torture. 

But not even the iron maiden or the row of skeletons chained to the back wall were as disturbing as what had once been Draco.

He had been still, his slow, rattling breath echoing off the stone walls; he seemed to be sleeping. But as soon as he heard footsteps, he snapped awake, writhing and fighting against his chains. Awful as he was to look at, what was worse was the terrible feeling of despair that snaked around Ginny’s heart as they got close.

_‘No,’ George blurted out the word, not sobbing or shouting, but matter of fact, like he couldn’t believe quite a grave mistake could have been made. ‘I saw Fred just a minute ago. He’s fine.’_

_Tears were streaming down Percy’s face, his glasses askew, his hair untidy. In some dim, distant part of her mind, she was shocked at the state of perfect, prefect Percy._

_‘There was an explosion,’ Percy said hoarsely. He couldn’t look George in the eye. ‘I’m so sorry, it was my fault, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-‘_

_George kept staring at Percy, shaking his head, his eyes round and empty._

Ginny jerked out of her memory, warmth returning to her limbs. A great stag patronus was circling Draco, filling the whole room with light. She glanced at Hermione; tears glistened in her eyes and she was visibly restraining herself from running forwards. Draco grinned at her, teeth stained with blood, and she shuddered.

Harry’s hand brushed against Ginny’s and she looked up at him. He shot her a look of questioning apprehension, the meaning of which was clear: was it a mistake to be there?

Ginny looked at Draco, forced herself to really look, and could only shake her head: she didn’t know.

Regan started talking faintly. ‘I brought anaesthetic but I’m not sure…’ she trailed off.

‘I think we’ll need more than that,’ Harry said. ‘ _Stupefy!_ ’

The spell had little effect except for angering the creature. It growled, low and menacing.

‘What if we try together?’ Ron suggested. ‘That works on dragons, if multiple wizards stun them.’

Harry glanced quickly at Hermione for confirmation before agreeing.

At that moment, Ginny’s heart went out to her brother. She’d never thought that Ron and Hermione had made the best match – there were too many arguments and differences of temperament for a smooth relationship – but she knew it tore him apart to see Hermione looking at someone else the way he looked at her. And yet, he had come to help.

Ginny, Harry and Ron raised their wands and aimed the stunning spell at Draco. It would have badly hurt an ordinary witch or wizard, but shouldn’t have been fatal unless they were quite weak to begin with. As it was, a spasm danced through Draco’s body and his head fell low but he remained conscious.

Ginny inhaled sharply. Whatever this curse was, it was giving Draco an inordinate amount of strength and power.

‘Hermione, I’m sorry,’ Harry said gently.

Hermione, nodded, brushed away her tears and raised her wand as well. They would have to try with four.

This time, Draco went rigid then slumped back, out cold. They breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You may not have long,’ Hermione told Regan. ‘Given how his physiology has changed, it’s hard to say how long the effects of the spell might last.’

As Regan busied herself with vials and swabs and horrifying looking needles, Hermione rested her hand near Draco’s so that their fingertips touched; she didn’t dare risk closer contact than that. Still, it was enough to cause Ron to look away pointedly, his eyes filled with pain.

‘Let’s go and guard the entrance to the dungeon, Ron,’ Ginny suggested. ‘We don’t want Draco’s parents surprising us.’

Ron gave a half-shrug but Harry nodded his approval at the idea so they made their way up the steps to the dungeon entrance. They had to stay very quite in case their voices were heard from behind the door.

Ron sat down hard on the stone steps, turning his wand over in his hand.

‘I should be angry with her,’ Ron whispered glumly. ‘But I love her too much to be angry with her. How pathetic is that!’

‘It’s not pathetic,’ Ginny said. She wished she had wise advice to give. Funnily enough, the best person to give him advice would have been Hermione.

They sat in silence for what felt like a long time. Occasionally they heard the squeak of house elves behind the door and once they thought they heard the voice of Narcissa Malfoy. Ginny’s heart had raced as she heard delicate steps come to a stop just in front of the door but Narcissa only paused for a few moments before walking on.

Ginny felt a prickle of sympathy for the woman in spite of how cold and prejudiced and ruthless as she had been. She loved her son and though she may not have raised him entirely well, by all accounts she had showered him with love.

‘Is it wrong that a part of me doesn’t want Draco to survive this?’ Ron asked, startling Ginny with the suddenness of his question.

‘Maybe a bit,’ Ginny admitted. ‘But it’s also normal, I suppose. And actions speak louder than words. You’re here, aren’t you?’

Ginny’s bones were aching from the cold floor by the time that Regan crept up to them to tell them she had finished and they could leave.


	44. Chapter 44

‘Should you even be back at work? Harry asked Hermione, frowning.

She tried to keep the bitterness out of her smile. ‘Probably not, but I’ve been politely reminded that they can’t keep my job for me forever.’

Something in Harry’s jaw twitched and Hermione knew his first instinct was to shout at the first five people he saw to let Hermione go home.

‘We need to pick our battles,’ Hermione warned him.

It was easy to say that in his presence. It was harder to keep up the brave face once he had gone and the rest of the Ministry personnel took up staring at her with varying degrees of subtlety. 

Protheroe had simply been awkward around her, twittering inanely about the weather and the price of Horklump juice. She had ignored him, sitting heavily at her desk and getting on with whatever work he put in front of her. As usual, it was a mountain of tedious paperwork with the odd outing to inspect unicorn farms or kneazle breeders, or to check the disillusionment charms on hippogriff owners. Of course, there were letters from the usual idiots to contend with. One man enquired as to how to enrol on a crash course in Mermish, as he had fallen in love with a siren during a recent trip to Santorini and wished to start a new life with the lovely lady. Hermione, her heart aching at the thought of Draco’s expression if he were to read the letter, advised the poor Lothario that long distance relationships were tricky at the best of times, that mermatron mother-in-laws were known to be waspish and interfering, and she delicately reminded him that piscine reproduction might fall rather short of his expectations.

The monotony of most of her work meant her mind was free to wander, and she couldn’t help but think of Draco.

Hermione’s mobile buzzed and she snatched it out of her pocket, reading the text message from Regan. Buying a mobile had been the most efficient way for them to keep in touch quickly without magic and Hermione didn’t want to miss the news of a breakthrough.

BAD NEWS. BLOOD AND TISSUE SAMPLES DISAPPEARED.

Hermione stared at the screen. A cold fury bubbled up, clouding her vision. The Ministry were behind it, they had to be. She could see Kingsley’s calm, reasoned face in front of her, telling her that they couldn’t allow for Dark magical substances to remain in the hands of a Muggle, certainly not when she was in such close proximity to other Muggles who might be harmed by it.

She kicked her desk and stormed out of the office, hands shaking. For once, she didn’t notice the looks people gave her and walked headlong into Mafalda Hopkirk. Ignoring Mafalda’s affronted glower, Hermione marched on, barely keeping her furious tears at bay.

She should have never come back to work, she should have stayed with Regan and shielded her work, she should have realised what the Ministry were going to do.

So many ‘should’s rattled uselessly around her brain.

Hermione had walked all the way to the Atrium before she managed to control her breathing. She looked up and just a few metres away, determinedly avoiding eye contact, was Horus Qabbilar.

‘Mr Qabbilar,’ Hermione said with a nod, changing her direction and falling into step with the Unspeakable. ‘How are you? The Ministry really dragged you over the coals at the trial.’ She feigned a look of compassion.

‘Quite,’ Qabbilar agreed brusquely. The suave, charming flirt Hermione had been introduced to at Arthur’s retirement party had vanished.

‘But you’ve had your book back, so all’s well that ends well, for the Department of Mysteries, anyway.’

The tension coursing through Qabbilar was obvious. ‘I have no idea as to what you could possibly be referring, Miss Granger,’ he said. 

‘Of course you don’t,’ Hermione said. ‘Confidentiality is a critical virtue in your line of work. But all the same, the Grimoire has been returned, so at least you haven’t embarrassed your country.’

Qabbilar looked about in paranoia but he needn’t have worried. It was noisy in the Atrium and Hermione had always borne in mind what Sirius Black had once pointed out: that it was more difficult to be overheard in a crowded place than a deserted one.

‘You must have heard about Draco,’ Hermione said.

‘My heart is bleeding for the fate of Death Eaters,’ Qabbilar said with a bite of sarcasm. Hermione chose to ignore the remark. Losing her temper now would not do any good.

‘I can’t help you,’ Qabbilar said. They were nearing the lift now. Hermione couldn’t follow him to the Department of Mysteries without drawing attention to herself.

‘I’m not asking for help, I’m offering it.’

Qabbilar slowed his pace.

‘You’ve been the primary guardian of this book for years – but have you ever seen its curse in action?’ Hermione asked.

‘The Ministry would hardly allow for human experimentation,’ Qabbilar said, a note of longing in his voice. ‘Before Nott, it had been years…’

‘And for you to show too much enthusiasm would have been crude,’ Hermione added. ‘But I have access to Malfoy Manor which the family don’t know about.’ At least she did for another month or so before Draco’s blood broke down in her system to be replaced with fresh cells. ‘Aren’t you tempted to see how it works?’

A glimmer of desire flashed in Qabbilar’s eyes and Hermione realised she had guessed right. Someone couldn’t work so closely with such a dark object without developing an almost loving fascination with it.

‘It would be too dangerous,’ Qabbilar dismissed.

‘As safe a chance as you’ll ever get,’ Hermione countered. They had arrived at the lift and were waiting for it to reach them.

‘You’re just hoping I’ll help you save him,’ Qabbilar said. ‘You love the Malfoy heir, this is common knowledge.’

‘And if you accidentally helped me in your quest to better understand the Grimoire, would that be the worst thing in the world?’

Qabbilar briefly warred with himself. He was not a brave man, that was clear, but his insatiable curiosity must have one out, because he nodded curtly before stepping into the elevator.

Hermione left the Ministry and phoned Regan straight away.

* * *

Hermione, Regan and Qabbilar visited Draco that night. Qabbilar grumbled ungraciously about the unsociable hour but more or less behaved himself apart from that.

Hermione cast her Patronus while they were still in the corridor, not giving despair a chance to overcome her. The shining silver dragon soared ahead of her with a flap of its wings.

As soon as Qabbilar saw Draco, he gasped dramatically, hand clutching his chest.

‘Not what you were expecting?’ Regan asked.

‘It is revolting,’ Qabbilar said quietly.

He wasn’t wrong; the change was dramatic, even from when Hermione had seen him four days earlier. Draco’s skin looked rotten; greenish and hanging off his bones like a serpent with half-sloughed skin. His eyes were empty sockets, his head bald and slimy, his ears closed up.

‘Is he-’ Hermione hardly dared to ask. ‘Is he fully a Dementor yet?’

Qabbilar shook his head. ‘Not entirely. He has fingernails and still a tooth or two in his head, you can see. But there is very little man left in him, I am afraid. And when the transformation is complete, those chains won’t hold him. However, it is fascinating to see this stage of the change – it is a pity I could not have documented all of it.’

‘I managed to test some of his blood before it was stolen,’ Regan said. ‘I don’t know how useful you will find my research, given that it’s not magically-based.’

‘On the contrary, my dear,’ Qabbilar said. ‘Anything I can learn about the creature is of vital importance.’

‘He’s not a creature,’ Hermione pointed out. Qabbilar made an impatient hand movement in her direction as he consulted Regan’s notes.

Qabbilar’s eyes ran quickly down the page. ‘I am most saddened to admit that, like most wizards, I have an imperfect understanding of biology, given that we so often rely on spells and potions which simply ignore it. You will have to explain much of this.’

‘This is his blood type,’ Regan said, pointing at one of the charts. ‘He’s O positive.’

‘The most common blood type in Britain,’ Hermione said softly. ‘Lucius will love that.’

‘And this is his white count – white blood cells fight against illnesses – and the number is really high because his body’s basically waging a war. This is pretty usual for someone fighting a terminal illness. To be honest, the only thing I saw that I couldn’t explain were these growths on the red cells. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to examine them properly before everything was taken.’

‘Interesting,’ Qabbilar said. ‘I suppose one of the great faults of magic is our tendency to overlook the molecular level of things.’

He pulled a thick book out of the tiny mokeskin pouch hanging at his side. Regan barely batted an eye. He busied himself checking his annotations and then would scrutinise Draco to see if his expectations held up.

‘ _Death Becomes Us,_ ’ Hermione read off the spine. ‘I haven’t even heard of that.’

‘This is the only copy,’ Qabbilar said. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not allowed out of my department, but I thought it would be useful.’

Hermione strained her neck for a closer look. A drawing of a vampire smirked at her and licked its lips.


	45. Chapter 45

Hermione crouched behind the pillar, uncomfortably close to Qabbilar, but that wasn’t to be helped if they were both to fit under Harry’s invisibility cloak.

Narcissa had come down and was talking at Draco.

‘Yes, yes, very sad and moving,’ Qabbilar muttered sullenly as Narcissa waxed lyrical about her memories of Draco as a child. ‘But my foot is falling asleep.’

‘Shh,’ Hermione hissed at him. Quite apart from not wanting to be detected, Hermione felt sorry for Narcissa. Perhaps in another universe, they would have been able to console each other.

Narcissa closed her eyes and her peacock patronus seemed to fade for a second but then she must have pulled herself together because when she raised her wand it shone a brighter silver and Draco snarled in revulsion.

‘This is the last time I see you, my darling son,’ Narcissa said. ‘They say that you are pure Dementor now and the Ministry are coming tomorrow to… if I thought there was the slightest chance we could do anything to help you, I’d fight it. The smallest glimmer of hope. But I know there isn’t. I know you’re gone.’

The chilling indictment fell heavily in the atmosphere. It was another ten minutes before Narcissa could bring herself to go.

Hermione looked at Draco. Nothing she saw seemed to prove his mother wrong. Robes, black and floating, hung in lieu of skin off his frame, a hood shielding his face. From the way the material had grown off him, it seemed to be a part of him rather than clothes.

‘Do you agree with her?’ Hermione asked Qabbilar.

He gave an elaborate shrug. ‘Who can tell? Whether he is a hundred per cent changed or only ninety-nine per cent, there is little difference. But you must have noticed this yourself,’ he told Hermione reproachfully. ‘I have told you that we didn’t have long many a time. In all honesty, even if Madam Malfoy had not stripped us of our case study, I would not have come more than one or two more times. You can see yourself there is little left to develop.’

Qabbilar made his way back to Draco and pulled out a complicated brass instrument. Tears, disobedient and wilful, threatened to burst out of Hermione.

‘I thought you could help,’ she said in a small voice.

Qabbilar had the good graces to look sympathetic as he went over to resume his latest test. ‘This I know. But you must remember that I never in fact agreed to do so.’

The complacent smile hadn’t quite left Qabbilar’s face when Draco’s skeletal hand wrapped itself around Qabbilar’s neck, the fingers making a perfect circle. Draco’s snarl of triumph masked Hermione’s cry of terror.

Qabbilar’s eyes bulged in terror and then went glassy.

Hermione could only back away as Draco ripped into Qabbilar. The attack had been fast, too fast for Hermione to have done anything about it. Qabbilar’s head now hung by a few threads to his neck as Draco gnawed into it.

Hermione kept backing away, slowly so as not to draw the creature’s attention away from its meal. Her back hit the stone wall and she edged along it towards the secret passageway. She took out her small knife and ran it over the healing wound on her hand, wincing at the now-familiar pain. This would be the last time, she realised, but she wasn’t sure if the scar would ever completely heal. Perhaps she didn’t want it to.

Hermione squeezed her hand and the blood spattered down onto the paving stones below. The creature looked up from feeding briefly and sniffed the air. Hermione held her breath but it soon dipped its head back down.

Hermione glanced sideways, unwilling to take her eyes off the creature completely. The secret passageway wasn’t sliding open as it usually did. She tried pushing it, knowing that that would be hopeless. With shaking hands, she lifted her knife again and tried to widen the wound. Pain, bright and sharp, flared through her hand but her feared seemed to cloud the worst of it.

Her blood ran freely onto the stones below but the wall refused to yield to her.

Hermione allowed herself to slide down to the floor, limp with terror. Her blood no longer had enough Malfoy cells in it to make the house obey her.

The creature seemed to be sated for now, leaving Qabbilar’s body drop to the floor. Its hooded head turned to face Hermione, considering her for a second, but then it slunk away again, resting against the stones.

Hermione forced herself to think. Her brain had always been her best weapon and she had never needed it more than now. 

The creature would be moved the next day, that much she knew. Ministry officials would come down here. All Hermione needed to do was to keep herself alive for another twenty-four hours or so. She gripped her wand and briefly considered casting a patronus. No, she had better save her strength. For now, the creature had lost interest in human prey but she would probably need to repel it at some point.

What about heading towards the stairs leading into the manor? Could Hermione get Narcissa’s attention? Even if she did, Narcissa would probably just have her arrested straightaway. If it were Lucius who heard her, he’d probably leave her in there with the Dementor.

But Hermione had information that was useful to them! 

It had taken Qabbilar’s life but not his soul. It wasn’t capable of doing that yet, so it wasn’t yet a pure Dementor. Perhaps he wasn’t a Dementor at all but some sort of hybrid. Would Narcissa and Lucius be grateful enough for this information to spare Hermione? Possibly.

Of course, before even crossing that bridge, Hermione had to cross the length of the dungeon to get to those stairs.

She stood up and had to grab onto the wall for support. She had lost more blood than she had realised.

The stairs seemed impossibly far away.

Hermione inched along, keeping to the shadows. It probably didn’t make much difference seeing as Dementors were blind, but it made her feel safer.

Hermione’s heart thundered in her chest, her breath ragged and far too loud.

Her foot caught against one of the chains on the floor and the clanging noise filled the whole room.

The creature snapped its head sideways and came gliding towards Hermione, the smell of rot and evil wafting along with it. And despair, so much despair filled her. She was drowning in it. She made a few feeble attempts to raise her wand but her fingers fumbled uselessly and she dropped it on the floor. The last flicker of her hope died blew out.


	46. Chapter 46

_Regan wore a necklace of bruises about her collarbone. Croaker smirked, as though he were proud to know he had painted every one._

_‘You’re vile, you know,’ Hermione spat at him. ‘You must know, how couldn’t you?’_

_Croaker only laughed and snatched at Hermione’s hair, dragging her along by it to the little room where she was locked up forever and ever and ever, a room where the birds couldn’t sing and the sun couldn’t shine._

_She couldn’t sleep. Except she must have, because once she woke up and Croaker was staring at her fondly._

_At once, Hermione’s muscles tensed into painful alertness and she scooted herself into the corner of the room._

_‘I only want you to learn,’ he said softly. ‘I want us to live as happily as three people could but that’s not going to be possible as long as you’re too stubborn to learn.’_

_Throat parched and bravery dried up with it, Hermione nodded._

_Croaker grinned and reached out a hand to stroke Hermione’s hair. She twitched but stopped herself from slapping it away._

_‘I know I haven’t been spending as much time with you girls lately. I’ve been cooped up in my office. But I’m sure the two of you understand how important this work is. Not to mention fascinating,’ Croaker said. ‘I think everyone is rather fascinated by Dementors, even if they don’t want to admit it. A black hole sucking in hope and love and happiness. Most people don’t deserve those things.’_

_He genuinely believed it, that was the terrifying thing._

_A crafty look flitted across his features. ‘I’ve yet to make my mind up what you deserve. You can be so very trying and I’d hate for you to be a bad influence on your cousin. She’s such a good girl.’_

Hermione wrenched herself out of the personal nightmare, shuddering badly. The creature was standing just a few feet away from her now, its breath rattling with excitement. No, not the creature – it was still Draco, even if only the tiniest part was still human.

‘I don’t know if pleading will work,’ Hermione said quietly. ‘Merlin knows I’ve tried everything else under the sun.’

He – or it – stood considering her. Perhaps hesitating. Perhaps there was still some recognition of Hermione that stopped it swooping down on her.

It wanted hope and happiness. In its frustration, it had tried to find it by ripping people open but very soon it would move past that.

Then, Hermione made a reckless decision.

‘You can’t suck the happiness out of me,’ she said. ‘Because I’m giving it to you.’

She leant forward and put her arms around the cloaked creature, lifting her face to find its mouth.

And she hoped.

The darkness and cold were overwhelming and her fear was sharp but it had no power over her now – it hummed at the edge of her mind, unpleasant but necessary. 

She felt the creature shift in her arms but she didn’t dare break the kiss, holding on for her dear life and soul.

Hermione eventually pulled back, opening her eyes.

And it was Draco, worn out and confused but undeniably human.

‘You found me,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I was locked away so deep but you found me. I don’t understand how you did it.’

‘Me neither,’ Hermione said. ‘But for now, who cares?’

When Narcissa led the Ministry officials down to the dungeon she was so overjoyed she forgot to even be shocked to see Hermione in there with him. Lucius did not but he did mutter something about needing a drink when he saw Draco resolutely holding Hermione’s hand.

Although Draco would have liked nothing better than to draw a line under the whole experience, Hermione pointed out that he really out to at least have a check up at St Mungo’s.

‘Well, it is all rather peculiar,’ Healer Fennel told them, consulting a lot of complicated graphs and charts. ‘As this has never happened before to the best of our knowledge, we can only hypothesise.’

‘Hypothesise away,’ Draco said.

‘It is likely that for the transformation from human to Dementor to be complete, it needs to suck in a new soul. In doing so, its own human soul is destroyed.’

‘So why didn’t that happen?’ Draco asked.

‘Because a soul was offered to you, freely and with love. We’ve long known that great acts of love can produce the most extraordinary magic,’ he said with a simple shrug.

‘And could this help Theodore Nott?’ Hermione asked. She felt Draco’s hand squeeze hers.

‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t work,’ Healer Fennel said. ‘Poor Mr Nott succeeded in overpowering and destroying the soul of one of our Healers. It was this which prompted us to move him from the hospital.’

Draco nodded bitterly.

‘It is a shame, in a way, that the two individuals who would have been the most fascinated by these revelations are not alive to study them.’

Hermione frowned. ‘Qabbilar died in the dungeon – the other man I presume you are referring to is Croaker – but isn’t he in Azkaban?’

The Healer leant backwards, frowning. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t have heard. You have the right to know, considering everything he put you through. However, I have to insist that you “didn’t hear this from me”,’ he said with a small smile.

Hermione and Draco both nodded.

‘It was announced that Croaker would be sent to Azkaban. However, the fact of the matter is that he betrayed the Department of Mysteries and they have their own way of dealing with traitors. It was I who recorded his time of death. It was an… unpleasant way to go,’ he finished delicately. 

Croaker doubtlessly deserved whatever he got but Hermione found she couldn’t relish the idea of anybody suffering.

‘If it were me in charge, I’d let everyone know,’ Draco said. ‘It would discourage people from doing what he did.’

The Healer nodded thoughtfully.

Draco visited St Mungo’s twice more at Healer Fennel’s suggestion and no side effects or lingering damage could be found on either occasion.

‘I’m completely well,’ Draco said happily, wrapping his arms around Hermione. They were in her little flat, cuddling on the sofa. ‘I’m in prime physical condition. I could show you, if you like?’ he teased in her ear.

Their embraces were interrupted by Crookshanks trying to wedge himself in between them.

Draco shot the cat a look of great exasperation. ‘I suppose I should be used to trying to prise you away from a ginger menace.’

Hermione rolled her eyes. ‘Speaking of Ron-‘

‘I try not to,’ Draco said.

‘He and Regan have been spending quite a lot of time together.’

‘Really? Well, he has a definite type, I’ll say that,’ Draco said with a bit of a grin. ‘But enough of Weasley, let’s focus on us. More specifically you, and what you want to do for your birthday next week. I won’t ask you what you want for a present because I have the perfect gift in mind.’

‘You intrigue me. What is it?’

‘Me. If you’ll have me, that is.’

Hermione laughed. ‘That sounded like a proposal.’

‘That’s because it was one.’

She stopped laughing. ‘You mean it?’

‘I brought a ring and everything,’ he said.

Draco straightened up and pulled it out of his robe. ‘This was my grandmother’s. Eleventh century goblin-made with pink diamonds. My mother always had her eye on it but when Granny Malfoy died she left it to me to give to my future wife. Of course, if you want a new one, I can get you one,’ he added hastily.

‘Are you having laugh? Put it on,’ Hermione said. ‘And of course I’ll marry you. Just as long as you don’t try and give our children ridiculous names.’

‘What’s a ridiculous name? I quite like Scorpius. Or Serpenius.’

‘We are not naming our child after anything deadly poisonous. I was thinking of something timeless and aesthetically pleasing. Like Rose.’

‘But that’s not a constellation. It’s not even a star.’

Hermione sighed. ‘As long as it’s something that the teachers can pronounce when they go to primary school.’

‘Excuse me, when they go _where_?’

**Epilogue**

November 2003

Noctua arrived early in the evening, floating gracefully through the French doors and landing on Narcissa’s shoulder. Narcissa immediately stopped what she was doing and tore open the letter. Draco wrote often but it never seemed to be enough.

Narcissa forced herself not to race through the letter but to take her time and savour every word. Unwittingly, she let out a little cry as she got to the bottom of the page and she snatched up the photograph that had come with the letter. The baby boy, Leo Hugo Granger-Malfoy, had soft brown curls and Draco’s nose.

‘Lucius!’ Narcissa called out, standing up. ‘Lucius!’

She found him in the library with a book and a glass of whisky, looking somewhat haughty. 

‘It’s not like you to shout,’ he said coolly.

‘They’ve had a boy,’ Narcissa said, holding out the photo.

Lucius didn’t even look at it. ‘What do I care if the Mudblood has dropped a brat,’ he muttered under his breath, returning to his book.

Narcissa’s stinging hex grazed the side of his neck and he looked up, shocked and reproachful. ‘Cissy!’ He admonished.

‘That is our only grandchild you’re talking about,’ Narcissa said. ‘Now, I, just as much as you, pray every day that Draco will come to his senses and get a divorce, but until that happens, we’re just going to have to pretend to like her. Because I’m not going to be kept out of my grandson’s life, I won’t,’ Narcissa warned.

Lucius gave a languid shrug, still rubbing the side of his neck. ‘I’ve never stopped you going over there, have I?’

‘Get your cloak,’ Narcissa told him.

Lucius’ narrowed his eyes.

‘I mean it,’ she threatened. ‘You’re coming too. And you’re going to offer Hermione your sincerest congratulations, so help me Merlin!’

Lucius huffed but set down his glass. ‘Oh, very well.’ 

In spite of himself, he stole a peek at the photograph and his expression softened. ‘He has my nose,’ he allowed grudgingly.


End file.
